Captured, the barn owl will slump
in its cage, a corner of dead feathers
propped like a crumpled pillow.
It sags, almost heart-stopped, it's fly-by-night
moth-flight a dream, hallucination
of moon's full breath falling on the flying fields,
and life as silent as surprise,
as easy as the focus of the eye and catch of ear.
And now the torn wing screeches
in the mop-and-bucket clatter of the feeding dish,
all stainless steel and sawdust reeking,
the dead chick offered limply at the beak in tweezers.
The night behind his eyes darkens,
he fights the squeeze of his resisting beak,
then gulps and swallows the only way back.
