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As if coming from a distant room in the woods the owl burst down, flung himself like a skydiver and hovered above me. I covered my face with my arms and ran towards him -- strange -- because I was afraid. I had disturbed the quiet of the feathered god who rested now, overhead, in a dead tree where jays and flickers pecked and cried. The owl acknowledged each note, each tiny, colored movement by twisting, on its calm trivet, his troubled head, the dappled body perfectly still, and I admit that I wanted the creature's attention, to compete with the smaller birds, so I made my human noises and the owl attended, turned his brown, comprehending eyes down to me and met my stare. I moved my arms -- slowly -- in an awkward imitation of flight, pawing the air like an animal awakened abruptly or just beginning to know the power of her wings. I held the owl's gaze as I swayed and wondered what he saw: something large straining to rise and failing. I thought of my younger sister, dead by her own hand, and I wanted her back, to show her, as I never did in life, how fear and longing sometimes go together, how one small percussive surprise in the trees can turn you from one self to another, this one with wings. -- Robin Becker
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