I only know the owl
because I have been told about the owl,

have been startled by the owl once or twice
and seen the owl through chicken wire,

heard the owl in a suburban grove
and been afraid of the owl then,

calling my name the way I’d been told it would
when I was being called to close my eyes

for the last time.  But I do not
know the owl, have neither lived near it

nor seen it hunt or shit,
in fact can only call the owl “the owl”

as if there were only One Owl
worthy of the name, and all I can know

of The Owl is myth and shadow wings
and meaning assigned in a void of experience,

of education in hard fact and simple proximity,
when what I want most desperately now

is for an owl to live here, on the shelf,
demanding to be free to be itself,

and to acquiesce to that demand, to let it go
and follow it, hoping that I might understand

why it has moved so many, why its call
is considered the voice of the journey home,

why such a call is so compelling
that it must be followed and obeyed

until I starve beneath its tree,
covered in its droppings, its serene disdain

and caution in my live presence,
fearful of what we hang on it

as it goes, solitary, among the trees
on its way to an individual, real existence.