We give credit to our short-sighted eyes.
The night of the owls showed me the power
of the robed, revered ear amidst the night,
a sage of the Source, and a call to now.
We hear catalysts when we perceive sound;
hearing the waves that will dictate our days,
hearing the sun and the moon and their lai.
Now, I’ll tell that I’ve found a gift; I found
that I have been born with the ears for tones,
abilities to hear and repeat sounds,
a heightened perception of hearing those
softer cries of the night above the closed
in fog that weakens the distance of sight—
so then my ears have to lead in the night.
It was on the full-mooned night of the owls,
on my meditated walk beneath the
old oaks and mist and my boots that lowered
with the sun losing its touch on the earth,
with droplets settling to sleep in the creek,
with the moon and mist and quenched holes of my soul—
that I heard those moans, those new, watchful notes.
I desired to use my eyes on the hidden
observers of that night still being born.
I walked up and down beneath the sure bed
of the moon’s glare, remaining torn
between glaring back or for the hole
in the oak holding who’s watching the slight
lucidity of the still, drunken night.
I sent back my geometries of sound
through thickly tamed stillness and mistful air,
but with no response, no whole hollow howls,
before I left the oaks for the moon’s glare.
I left for the graveyard hill, for the fair
fall grasses beside the dew and full sight
of moonlight, faint howls still in the night.
I sat and skipped my mind over white hills
under the mingling moon’s then-half cycle
before given the night’s timely thrill:
A set of whimsy wings before my sight
that made a circle, then off into the night!
Petrified, I regained balance and searched:
only to see it again, it that’s only heard!
