Owl

by William Carpenter

I stood on the front porch last night after
the news, listening for owls. A big one
called somewhere downhill from Sig’s house
near the river. Who. It called
and waited, then asked who again. Who?
I tried waking you up to hear it, but you
were dreaming. Your eyes remmed under
their lids, your hands treaded the covers
like someone struggling to stay afloat.
I went back out. Another owl had started,
and they were closer, one on each side
of the house, both of them asking who.

I knew, and I still know; though I
could no more say it then than I can now.