the owl

Nylon mesh fence, neon
orange.
Daylight. An owl,
yellow eyes wide, hopeless-
ly tangled, dangling, twisted. 
Built for trees, silent
flight, lightning
strike.

For this she can
do nothing.
This is what she does.
Two big, yellow,
staring eyes.

Until three guys, not angels,
come and work together.
Beer-drinkers, game-watchers,
universe-beholders.
One holds
her legs, one cuts
with care the gripping
string, one-by-
one with a blade.
One stands by, disentangles, offers
guidance, is there.

The owl could not have escaped
on her own in a million
years. She is calm.
The men work.
She flies.

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About nosuchthingasastraightline

I grew up in tiny Lyme, New Hampshire, where I drew, roamed the surrounding woods, and first entertained the idea of God while listening to my mom's Beatles records. I studied biology at Harvard University where I wrote for The Harvard Lampoon and also began writing poetry. I have since made a living variously as a comedy screenwriter, teacher, and private tutor in math, science and writing. I’ve released three CDs of original music as the singer-songwriter and guitar player for Crooked Roads (listen to latest tracks here: https://soundcloud.com/crooked-roads). My poetry writing has been inspired by Rumi, Billy Collins, William Carlos Williams, e.e. cummings, Antonio Machado, Federico Garcia Lorca, and others. My two books of poetry, "The Morning I Married the Sky," and “Free this Morning” are both available on Amazon.
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2 Responses to the owl

  1. ivors20 says:

    The untangling of “the owl” is so visually well told, I enjoyed this piece.

  2. Thank you for taking the time to comment!

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