Little Owl Who Lives in the Orchard - Mary Oliver

[Larry Robinson]

Little Owl Who Lives in the Orchard

His beak could open a bottle,
and his eyes---when he lifts their soft lids---
go on reading something 
just beyond your shoulder---
Blake, maybe, 
or the Book of Revelation.

Never mind that he eats only 
the black-smocked crickets,
and dragonflies if they happen
to be out late over the ponds,
and, of course, the occasional festal mouse.
Never mind that he's only a memo
from the offices of fear---

it's not size but surge that tells 
when we're in touch with something real,
and when I hear him in the orchard
fluttering 
down the little aluminum 
ladder of his scream---
when I see his wings open, like two black ferns,

a flurry of palpitations
as cold as sleet 
rackets across the marshlands 
of my heart,
like a wild spring day.  
Somewhere in the universe, 
in the gallery of important things
the babyish owl, ruffled and rakish, 
sits on its pedestal.
Dear, dark dapple of plush!  
A message reads the label, 
from that mysterious conglomerate: 
Oblivion and Company.
The hooked head stares 
from its blouse of dark feathery lace. 
It could be a valentine.
                                     
	- Mary Oliver
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