Walking through the coastal redwoods as the last of the evening sun filters through the low hung branches.
The mist curls up from the thick of the forest floor, where life is busy dying and being born — in an instant —
and all at once.
Feet meet earth and leaves with a sound that can't be named, and the body winds down the trail
with no knowing of what any of this truly
And as the twilight sinks to gold and violet, the feet stop motionless, and a splendor of wide and willowy wings rise from beneath the canopy.
It is the Owl.
The one I've never seen before in the wild.
Her size is eclipsed by her utter silence, even in the billow of her wings as she flys…
not a sound.
Not even a hush... but the lift and weightlessness that makes no sense for her measure.
And I see myself there, quieter than quiet, hunting the death that is
… all eyes and solemn stillness, no mind for reason or meaning, or none ...
no retreat from the mystery that I am.
Freedom does not look like I thought it would.
Its low dark bells are as clear and vivid as its bright ones, and every tone that hums is a pulse.
The owl glides down from the heights of her vantage point,
she takes her whole self in, and disappears without a trace.
As do I...
for I am she.