Owl
       

Morning ghost—
white, burnt umber.
I heard your hoot

in my sleep. You sweep
across the road, talon
a vole at the oak's foot.

Night eyes stare back,
bronze beak tears open
the dawn. Caught

in sunrise, you dissolve
into shadow. I walk the long
driveway from the mailbox,

riffle through yesterday's
junk, open
a Land's End catalog—

there's my mother's
white wool sweater.
She gets more mail

than I do, though
she's never lived here
and is long gone.

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Copyright © 2021 Aaron Caycedo-Kimura All rights reserved
from Ubasute
Slapering Hol Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission