The stars appear

and the barred owl calls out

like a ghost

before tumbling

from the pine tree.

 

Falling as if he liked

the covetous touch of gravity

on his wings,

only at the last second

taking flight.

 

As he glides

over a land stitched

by lake and wood

he reminds me

that everything arrives

only in its own season

and by mysterious directions

 

but sometimes not even then,

this knowledge weighing

like a stone in my palm.