BEING LISTENED

Last Sunday at late dusk, returning from exploring up along the stream through the woods to the southeast, as I was passing through a clearing now covered with stumps of cherry oak cedar beech, in the silver-amber of the last light through the trees I heard an owl call, a large one from the sound of it, call out solitarily from the forest on the other side of the ravine, and a hundred thousand years ago I stood there, listening for that call again to the ancient in me somewhere, so far away it seems until such moments, when it leaps to the leading edge of my senses and hovers focusing there with all the power of eternity, standing me stock still, listening me...