Tuesday, 5 February 2019


Some days,
you’re the barred owl
gliding on silent wings,
surveying snowy terrain.

Some days,
you’re the field mouse
frantic in the frost,
searching for a warm place to hide.

Most days,
you are neither.

Most days,
you are just
the impression
of wings on snow,
maybe a tiny sprig of fur
left to be carried away
by the breeze—

not alive,
just the evidence
of something
that was.


Jenny said...

Welcome back to Rufous Salon, Matt. What a beautiful and poignant piece! Great composition too.

Anders Enochsson said...

This was beautiful and quite sad. Hmm seen as a comment of human condition, would you say the only desirable option is to be the owl?

po johnson said...

I always feel like the fake one, just the evidence of something that was. When I was young I had the feeling I should travel to the stars, but as I grew up I felt content with sitting in front of a screen, in a little cublicle.
Anyway, a fine and thought provoking poem indeed!

ear said...

Wow. very much pulls at the heart. I walk where I see those small feathers and bones, the evidence, when I walk out my door... Even a small wind can leave a mark, and you've caught this mind state so well.

Matt Galletta said...

Thanks for the kind words and thoughts, everyone! I'm thrilled to see Rufous Salon up and running again. That's an interesting point, Ande, and maybe you're right that it's best to be the owl. Though being the owl requires someone else to be the mouse...