The BARN OWL

The wind swept across the big pond behind the barn. An invisible river blew between the poplars out by the road and waved the tall grass aside like green long-bottom weeds. When it hit the barn, warped and worn by the rain, crooked boards faded silver as fish skin, there was a music in the creaks and ticks. The steady hiccup of a rope that hung from a rafter. Up in the broken roof slat, an owl was dreaming his flight above nighttime fields full of mice. He could turn into air silently. But wise as the owl was, he didn’t know he slept while the wind blew. He was in a dream apart from everything. He forgot he was also in this world, held together precariously and waiting for that one last breath to fall.