The spotted owl—folded wings like an air
photo of a deep-brown, craggy mountain
etched with snow packs—rests on the white oak’s bare
branch above the sloped bank of Oregon’s
Wolf Creek. Moonlight through clouds sets it center
stage. Native westerner, its nest’s fallen
prey to the barred owl, eastern invader
named for its long, feathered beard, a frozen
waterfall striped its length with dried blood streaks.
Headlights flash over the near hill, swiping
the spotted. Its beak spreads like talons, shrieks
as, like glistening war bonnets, its wings
swell, lift swift as a thought through the night sky.
Logging trucks park at the new mill nearby.
Roger Armbrust
August 5, 2007
