I had forgotten how to fly.
There was a small dark owl with me
On the old dirt road by the wind.
It was a very dark grey,
Like an ash.
Its beak moved, it opened & shut
Opened & closed,
But I had also forgotten the
Language of owls.
I could see that its wings
Were too short
& it too could not fly,
But it had never
Forgotten how.
And it saw
That I no longer understood.
Two times I tried simply
Leaning into the wind,
And both times I flopped on the ground,
And the small owl waddled over to me
& it peered into my face
& its beak moved
& moved,
But it did not speak.
