There’s a barn owl
that nests somewhere on our street.
I’ve named her Ghost Face Junior
and will correct people.
Imagine her eyes
dark marbles in the snow.
Imagine her turning her head 180 degrees
as if to say,
go ahead now you try.
Sometimes you can’t tell me anything.
Sometimes when my wife wants to
change the subject
she says, “windshield wiper,”
and makes this little motion with her arm
that means everything
you were just saying is rain.
I love it when she does this.
I love suddenly being a passenger
in the metaphor of her driving.
But it’s true, I also loved being the rain.
Born in clouds.
Against the windshield.
Joining the river.
Ignoring the ocean.
Whispering all night
in the field
behind our sleeping.
is the author of Crying Shame (BlazeVOX [books]) and The Last Note Becomes Its Listener (Conduit Books & Ephemera), winner of the Mind’s on Fire Prize. Did you know that Barn Owls don’t hoot? They hiss and it’s terrifying.