Last night, while waiting to collect my son,

I snoozed in the hammock,

when the moon was a crescent and the

sun blued the sky until way past ten.


I hoped I would hear the owl call as he does in winter when I am blanketed in bed,

hoped I would hear the scratch and itch of the mice the cat chases,

wondered what sounds the fox

who wails in a mating, would make on this warm May evening,

imagined badger,




But instead I drifted off to the

heavy thrum of engines

cutting through the night.


As we drove home

and he pretended he wasn’t drunk

and I pretended not to notice

there it was

the wild shape

of an owl

swooping to our left,

there, can you see him

on that branch with his huge wide eyes

and round face

then reaching wide to fly

into the night

where young people party and

parents wait.



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