Upon the arid branches
Of a cold November sky,
The pathos of a snow owl’s cry
Rings out the Great Divide.
One lone chick in search of they
Who’d long-since taken flight,
From Mother’s e’r-shortening days
And brutal hoarfrost nights.
The tender fluff of downy white
‘Round solemn liquid eyes,
With razor beak uplifted
Twice the owlet sadly cries.
Adolescent wings outstretched
Beat air in frenzied flight,
With an eighth’s strength of his sire
More fury’s passion compensate.
His thoughts – I could not guess –
As in desperation and pain,
He explodes upon sights
Yet unvisited by his kind.
Driven by his aching
And by pelting drops of rain,
He swoops down to shiver in the eaves
Of a farmer’s sagging barn.
The owlet flutters out across
The dank and dusty floor,
To bat a dying mouse left from
The hunt of night before.
Farm cats, fat and lazy,
Blink and watch his growing rage,
His fever pitch unmatched
By his inability to feed.
As driving winds and frosty air
Turn water into snow,
Icy slivers rip into
The baby’s infant down.
The blasting sheets of Arctic slate
Rage on into the night,
While owlet drifts as in a dream
Into the dismal white.
Like a candle that flickers once
Before it wisps away,
The owlet lifts and rushes
The tumult of coming day.
Crashing through the clouds
He struggles with fates unknown,
Pathetic flapping drops into
The wash of daybreak’s glow.
The creamy down of baby’s coat
In patches torn away,
Expose beneath the flesh
Of youthful splendor gone astray.
Even as the scarlet drops
Slowly drain beneath,
Hungry crows gather silent
To feast upon his memory.
The locusts rise in sudden flight
And anger fills the ‘scape,
As a girl approaches across the field
To inspect the congregate.
Leaning over the remains
She sees not its smearied waste,
But instead is shocked to silence
By the peaceful sleeping face.
She lifts the weightless snow owl
And strokes its silky neck
As his head flops backwards
In most horrific haste.
“Daddy, daddy … come and see,” she cries,
As she rushes across her father’s field
With her terrible surprise.
The shovel clatters noisily
Upon the shallow mound,
The child sobbing as he’s laid
Into the frozen ground.
“I’ll bet an angel’s lifting him
To heaven as we speak,”
The father coughs and savors
The ache of numbing feet.
But the daughter hears nothing
On that melancholy day,
Except the crying of the wind
Against her tremulous face.
For the blessings of the Lord
Are hardest to discern,
Until you have endured
The sweet agony of them.
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