Lonely Owl

Evenings

early and late

under the star-black sky

punctuated

by satellites

the boreal owl calls

from somewhere

in the aspen.

Five beats.

Not who,

but whowhowhowhowho,

meaning Why am I still alone?

His feathered loneliness,

was so much like yours

when you went out

to feed the chickens

and look at the stars,

and looked back to see me

through the living room window:

laptop open

face lit with green light,

so unaware of you,

you stood on the deck

hooting at me: five beats

copying the owl in his sadness

calling me outside to see

the aurora and stars

and breathe in the cold moment

with you.

I would love to say

I heard you,

but I didn’t.

I never even looked up.