Call and Response

When the owl fledglings fall from their nest,

I consider not inserting myself into their fate,

watch the siblings hobble from pepper tree shade

to the safety of buckwheat. The mother arrives

at dusk with short shrill chirps, they answer

with a bellowing screech as if they’ll never be found.

She drops night-kills in the brush,

their call and response puncture darkness

like luminescent blooms against the black sky.

It’s been months since our last exchange,

your face nearly unrecognizable on a video call.

Another urban mayday, you considering rehab,

me knowing there’s only moments to say

the right thing before you go silent again, wishing

a simple lullaby could still calm you in the night.

The next morning a group of ravens

gather in the shade, earn their name — an unkindness,

a clawed foot remaining between them.

A lone owlet drags himself from dried yarrow,

one wing flapping, the other dangling by its side.

It took only minutes to toss the towel over its body,

place it in the dog crate in the airconditioned car.

I’m not sure if an owl is soothed by, you are my sunshine,

but I sing it all the way to the rescue,

knowing this is all that I can save.