Waiting in the Wings
www.madorphanlit.com
Waiting in the Wings
It was the owl that shriek'd, the fatal bellman,
Which gives the stern'st good-night.
MacBeth. Act II, Scene 2
In the dark morning, an owl enters
silently from behind. Dipping low as though
to purposefully catch my eye. Her feathers
snag the spill of pollution from the trail light. White
as a paper cut-out gliding over the depth
of the predawn sky. A specter, her
here and not here, that takes my breath
for four steps. My feet hit the ground, and the only sound
is this—is my—intrusion. I stop. Between us
is the tensile understanding: the wonder
of her benevolence, her curved talons
unseen, but keenly present.
I offer you poetry as a Practice of Hope.
I invite you to write an answer poem
and copy it or link to it in the chat!
Oddly enough, a friend of mine posted a pic of her and a bird of prey landing on her thick-gloved hand. Her face, her wonder, her whole body in wonder, was a joy to watch (in slow-mo, the vid was), and around it all that tension between two entirely separate and distant worlds. Like she was putting her arm into a wornhole.
Wrote a sonnet as an answer poem - https://open.substack.com/pub/tettig/p/the-oracle?r=cywqq&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web&showWelcomeOnShare=true I hope it works. R