Hoot Owls

They come as close as they can. The tree line is a frontier edge between them and the brick barricades. I imagine them peering over their world into mine, and though their hooting may be only a prelude to nesting, this night they speak on the multilingual lips of transmission. When such divergent beings encounter one another, they meet at a distance, skirmish and scout. They lookout from a catbird seat. All sounds speak of something. Where light and dark converge much can be overheard, much discerned. Tonight the hoot owls speak though that same interspace, their modulations are haunting, the way the wind haunts the very breath in our lungs.