Share this story
Close X
Switch to Desktop Site

The great horned owl

a barred feather caught in the dry grass while the dayblind eyes turn toward me again and yet again from the crotch of the old sycamore later, at duskfall, a faint hooting the very color of the silent wings renewing an ancient pattern of wisdom in the nightflight

Follow Stories Like This
Get the Monitor stories you care about delivered to your inbox.