She Watches
The barn owl perches on our bookshelf
in the upper left corner between Richard Adams,
Maya Angelou and Jane Austen, spines bent
or broken, pages dog-eared and worn soft–
perfect nesting material should our owl desire.
In spite of her heart-shaped face,
she is no romantic. She hears every movement,
sees in the dark, the moles tunneling under rugs,
the hurts and silent accusations tucked
behind books, secrets shoved into corners–
wisps of dog hair and dust won’t hide them.
She surveys our coming and going, sleeps
through stuttering conversations
and long stretches of quiet, wakes
to punctuations of laughter and chatter,
moments of tenderness. She does not hoot,
she’s not the hooting sort, but neither
does she chortle or shriek. If she has words
of wisdom, she keeps them to herself.
We don’t feed her, but sometimes we forget
a roasted chicken carcass on the counter,
a pot of pasta carbonara on the stove,
slightly over-steamed broccoli in a bowl
by the sink. But she never samples,
as if she lives on air alone.
There is a great deal we don’t understand.
Now and then she wings about, lands
on the back of a dining room chair,
the upstairs banister, curtain rods.
She goes unnoticed, like the blue jar of marbles,
the ceramic tray of shells and rocks. Visitors
never get a glimpse, never suspect our owl.
The dog gets a little nervous, retreats
to her crate, sweeps her tail over her nose,
sleeps with one eye partially open.
Maybe we should be wary, too,
but her presence is a comfort.
We are more kind when she watches.
Ann Farley, poet and caregiver, is happiest outdoors, preferably at the beach. Her poems have
appeared in Timberline Review, Third Wednesday, Willawaw Journal, Verseweavers,
KOSMOS, and others. Her chapbook, Tell Her Yes, was published by The Poetry Box in
April, 2022. She lives in Beaverton, OR. Visit www.annfarleypoetry.com
