White Owl Flies Into & Out of the Field

Coming down 
out of the freezing sky
with its depths of light,
like an angel, 
or a buddha with wings,
it was beautiful, 
and accurate,
striking the snow and whatever was there
with a force that left the imprint
of the tips of its wings - 
five feet apart - and the grabbing 
thrust of its feet,
and the indentation of what had been running
through the white valleys 
of the snow -

and then it rose, gracefully,
and flew back to the frozen marshes
to lurk there, 
like a little lighthouse,
in the blue shadows -
so I thought:
maybe death 
isn't darkness, after all,
but so much light 
wrapping itself around us -
as soft as feathers -
that we are instantly weary 
of looking, and looking,
and shut our eyes, 
not without amazement,
and let ourselves be carried,
as through the translucence of mica,
to the river 
that is without the least dapple or shadow -
that is nothing but light - scalding, aortal light -
in which we are washed and washed
out of our bones.



 = Susannah Wood