The owl’s wings bat off the morning mist
As they lift. The owl’s juvenile horns are rolling

Waves of sea foam that push the scalloped sounds
Of night into form and sense. The light gold talons,

Both soft and sharp, wrap around a branch of air.
Missing the mouse of morning. Meanwhile,

And I mean in every sense of mean,
The owl’s eyes are traveling, out beyond

Its youthful death, in the company of ants;
In all directions death can take the owl’s 

Eyes go, unseeing pieces of marvelous flights
We could never take, unmoving beneath the green

Knives of the peonies, past their own spring flowering.
Two ants crisscross my glove as I place the owl 

Back on the earth. Now I know where vision goes
And why it’s first to go and feed what cannot see.