I remember that walk

with my Great Horned Owl

lying on wilting green bed of grass

next to her severed left wing,

her eyes so Open Sesame

in a cardboard box

my arms were graced to carry

to her grave.

 

I remember billowing ribbons of vapored breath

sweeping out toward yellow brown hay stubble fields,

our red barn and fake-brick farmhouse,

carrying messianic wonder and hope,

worry and fear and unworthy sobs

for this Earth,

so richly endowed with ionic wisdom,

to choose us for her

Permaculturing Opera.

 

But, I was eight

with much to unlearn,

and this may be why Sage Owl

had come to vaccinate me,

to show me through her dying

that Permaculture Tribe

mentors me to ask for water

cupped in my young right hand,

open to her infinite swelling eyes

leaking thirsty freedom justice,

tipping sea salty balance

toward all Earth’s shamanic polycultured Tribes.

 

I buried her for far too long,

apparently justice flies with older wisdom.

We are each ecologically programmed shamans

blindly dodging barbed wire fences.