Hoot

They come close to my backyard. This is their frontier, a borderland one windowpane thick. Inside my room, my weakly ticking brain like a deflated blimp, is wedged between one ear and the wild beyond. Sound carries visions at night, details shine. It’s like you can see, only it’s their eyes projecting on yours. When alien cultures meet in the in-between, they camp at a distance from each other. They sing, do their daily dance, they do it close enough for all to see. The deathless humor of survival is a ritual. The hoot owls said all this to the dark, while my ears scanned an inner wilderness squeaking like wagon wheels.