By Carole Giangrande
The Snowy Owl’s at rest on its weathered perch.
Its yellow eyes are the sun’s, its body ghosted, white
with the still air that gives it life. It’s a creature made
of every grace: hearth-light and winter, dawn and dark
in its form, feathers singed with night. Better yet,
it has a gift for making people happy. A truck drove up,
park maintenance. The guy asked if we’d seen the Snowy,
told us where to find him. People talk about the birds
with awe and love, as if they’d seen an apparition.
There’s something endearing about these owls —
their coal-flecked whiteness and their golden eyes,
far-seeing, not of this world.
Our cameras pan. We’re on the Snowy as its wings begin to open —
how slow they are to rise — as if it could crouch inside
the thought of leaving, turn it over in its mind; where
to go and when. Who knows what it might be thinking,
maybe just waiting for a good wind as it hunches,
numinous as breath, resting in the moment when it sees
our great metallic eyes reach out to hold him.
