Lucy Alexander
Tonight, without a breath of warning
I cross the flight path of an owl
frozen in the windscreen's frame.
A glimpse of creamy wings arced wide across the draining sky
their freckled undersides rich, soft-feathered
supping the airstream's lift.
It rises, then is gone
to some street perching.
I don't look back – I'm driving.
The intimacy
that cushioned body
soft-feathered trajectory
recalls the early hours, when wakened by its lucid cry above the reeded ceiling
with whispered reverence my own mate’s voice
– the owl –
always singular
although from some perimeter roost
its mate replies.
Dense velvet darkness draws me closer to his softening body
as sleep resumes.
I tilt my head to hear the owl more clearly
to sense his breathing at my ear.
Featured at The Red Wheelbarrow with the Life Riting Collective on 21 July 2022
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