somewhere between
midnight & dawn
the coarse call
of a young owl
open-beaked
rough-throated
& i am pulled
like night-
women before me
out the side door feet
bare on the give
of lawn laced
in fir needles to look
for tawny wings
tufted as memory new-
born new-wild thing
trees netting moon-
light  & glint
of dark-seeing eyes
grass rustling under
my arch as memory’s
downy tail flies
into deeper woods
my feet tip-
toe back to my
room & nobody
not even the love
with whom i share
this bed knows
where i have been.
 

—Lisbeth White

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