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A couple of weeks ago,
a Barn Owl
and I
got a good look at each other.
Now I know
there are two
Barn Owls
that make their home in the round-top. I try
when I am going into the barn,
to enter as quietly
and with as little movement
as I can, hoping
to see them. Before I find them
there is a motion,
a shadow—there,
behind,
or off to the right—and they are
gone.
Sometimes one will fly low
above me
and I see its white under-feathers.
This morning,
I approached the barn
watching
and when I entered, it flew
from behind me
into the old Juniper, briefly,
and then, with me outside watching,
and Maizey barking,
into a Hackberry
out by the grain bins.
This afternoon,
I entered the barn again,
silently, slowly
and no one was at home.
No flash of white feather,
or wing span shadow.

They often fly out a small, glass-less window
at the round-topped barn’s peak. Sometimes
one will sit there
in the corner. I always look
there
first.
I keep an eye on that little black square,
that patch of blue sky,
hoping to catch another look
at that warm and dazzling round white face,
those piercing dark eyes.
In this season of thanksgivings,
I should be grateful
and satisfied
to have one
long
lingering
gaze.

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