Once, when I was bushwhacking through the woods and came to a clearing, I saw an owl in the tree closest to me. It was perched on a limb about ten feet off the ground, and the tree was about ten feet from me, and I had never been that close to an owl. The owl’s face was mesmerizing – flat and soft-looking, with eyes fixed on mine. I tilted my head to take it in better, and the owl tilted its head too. I tilted my head the other way, and so did the owl. Back and forth we went, in rhythm with each other, just me and the owl, in silence. When I need to conjure up peace inside myself, I think of that owl. And now I will also think of this quiet, beautiful poem below.  

Owls, by Robert Hedin

Owls glide off the thin
wrists of the night,
and using snow for their feathers
drift down on either side
of the wind.

I spot them
as I camp along the ridge,
glistening over the streambeds,
their eyes small rooms
lit by stone lamps.

For more information about Robert Hedin, please click here.