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.