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.
The Owl
The Owl
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.