The Owl
The Owl
He knew he was dying when an owl
Appeared in the oak outside the window
Of the room his daughter had deemed it best
For him to die in. It crouched on the branch
Like a tomcat with feathers, or a coon
Drooling bloodhounds had treed. As his daughter
Cared for him in the brusque, efficient way
She had put on like armor in her years
She’d worked for hospice, he talked of the owl,
Harbinger of death. Shushing him, she said,
“It’s only a bird, daddy,” until she
Grew so tired of all his talk of it
She shooed it out of the tree with a broom.
And that night when the owl asked him who
He was, there was no one there to answer.