after Elizabeth Barrett Browning
I have no need to count those well-known ways
when owls are singing in the hour before daylight
and I must pause and listen as one might
to a still small voice. For me you are one graced
by those great horned owls, the spirits of this place,
the steady hand you offer when the flight
is steep, your fingers’ glissade on the bright
Jazzmaster strings caressing a minor phrase.
The owls begin their pair-calling duet
under the Hunger Moon, their fluting breath
the year’s first hymn to light and life renewed.
Their harmonies sound the tonic across the breadth
of our farm — I am here. Where are you? —
til the waxing Sap relieves the Hunger’s depths.
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