Cynicism and Brown Tattoos

The owl sits, talons circling
the small bend of a Oak
tree branch directly over
our deck. She spends
the morning mostly closing,
her large, brown eyes while
her head seems to sit in fragile
balance on a ruffled necklace
of white and brown. Her feathers
are like clothing, brown and
white alive on bone.

Her head turns, eyes sleepily
watching me and the dog, sitting
on the deck trying for quiet. She
looks tired and then alert at the
increasingly, mechanical
sounds of a suburban morning.

She was hunting last night. I heard
her soft hoots or maybe, she was
calling her mate, I hope and imagine.
For there is another nest
farther down this stretch of woods.
I assume Owls are a solitary,
lonely bird but want her, alive,
beautiful, sleeping above me,
to not be.

I catch her seeing me and I
think or I imagine again,
that she seems weary, not cynical
but as if she knows of me and
my kind; a tired regard mixed
with a wary acceptance.

And I feel my own bitter sweetness
at the familiar feeling; always
bit glad when wild animals fear me.
Stay safe, I want to whisper
to communicate... We, we are
not to be trusted, not entirely.
You cannot assume
because I look at you
with wonder and friendliness
that all of my kind
will too. We are all afraid,
in small or large amounts,
of others and of our own kind...
I guess we should be. And I look up
and she is gone.