What the Owl Sees

Across the night the silence of travelling lights, the shimmering molt of the stars, the moon sweeping snow over the black drenched cars, and all unwinding into cisterns of darkness. The chill windowpane captures them all as they creep from casement to casement snow-chained together in one freeze-frame. Logs crack and chirp as if the fire where birthing birds. There are ghost trees in the air, limbs creak as the cabin adjusts to wind thrown spears. The room chirrs like a camp fiddle, a mood music for the tips of my warming fingers. My aspect in the wall-mirror is itself glass, I feel its features cracking, the window pinging as heat and cold scratch random runes across its glass. The cabin rolls on invisible stalks. its foundations are structured hollows of hope, tonight it is travelling also there are high seas for these unanchored times, and home is beyond these dark mountains, beyond the reach of this log-raft nailed together in a kinder season when nights did not block all paths with their felled and fractured blinders.