Elegy with Barred Owl

It’s hard to be sure. The shock of it—

pure size alone enough to stun—

a smooth shape shifting in August heat.

The barred owl breaks stillness,

lifts into the invasive, elegant bamboo

mantling our pond, then lofts higher

onto the walnut tree’s limb, stopping

there, perfectly obvious now,

its face disc-flat, blank as effigy, as mere

portrait. In its talons, a common goldfish.

We regard this small drama with awe,

some laughter, rue, but your face,

my friend, is the one I watch.

After months of wasting illness—

diagnosis scans scars infusions

hair loss metastasis hope

anger anger anger—

this small destruction

is an early and approximate grief,

a familiar beast, whose news is,

Yes, this—

all this—and more.