A poem for snow and owls;

Snowy Night
Last night, an owl
in the blue dark
tossed
an indeterminate number

of carefully shaped sounds into
the world, in which,
a quarter of a mile away, I happened
to be standing.

I couldn¹t tell
which one it was ¬
the barred or the great-horned
ship of the air ¬

it was that distant. But, anyway,
aren¹t there moments
that are better than knowing something,
and sweeter? Snow was falling,

so much like stars
filling the dark trees
that one could easily imagine
its reason for being was nothing more

than prettiness. I suppose
if this were someone else¹s story
they would have insisted on knowing
whatever is knowable ¬ would have hurried

over the fields
to name it ¬ the owl, I mean.
But it¹s mine, this poem of the night,
and I just stood there, listening and holding out

my hands to the soft glitter
falling through the air. I love this world,
but not for its answers.
And I wish good luck to the owl,

whatever its name ¬
and I wish great welcome to the snow,
whatever its severe and comfortless
and beautiful meaning.
~ Mary Oliver ~

Tufa spires at Mono Lake. Chilly here means in the forties, which it has been in the mornings, not a fan. I have wandered, heavily garbed, though midwestern snowfields among the bare trees, birding, and it was bearable and, with the adventure and scenic beauty, even pleasant, for a while, but all the same, not my thing. Best enjoyed at a distance from a nice, warm, comfortable viewing place. Won't even discuss digging out and chaining up the truck to make our getaway in the Sierras, nor the drive back down.

be well and have a good one.

I loved your open thread. Such beauty and poetry reflecting the magic of nature and the recognition of it by the human heart.