Field Notes From an Illusion
There's a barn owl
perched high in a tattered
cottonwood near the lake,
a stately white bird with
a heart-shaped face
and enormous dark eyes,
still as a marble statue.
I study the image in my scope,
offer a look to passers-by,
but none of them can see the owl.
The bird doesn't move a feather.
He doesn't blink.
I'm not sure he's breathing.
The thrill of spotting
the illusive bird dissipates
in a downdraft of doubt.
Maybe it's not an owl,
but an apparition
made from peeled bark,
desiccated leaves,
reflected sunlight,
and angst.
Why not a looming raptor,
a phantom,
a portent,
a sign of hope
in this wretched time?
An owlish shape
made out of light, shadow
and need,
an illusory joy,
this owl
that is not,
strictly speaking,
there.
