Phyllis and the Screech Owl of Malheur


Thrusting through the cold water

My arm numbs reaching for you

And your visage ripples,

Small stones of many colors remain

Made round and resting,

From decades of tumbling.


In the Malheur

Reappearing as a screech owl

Caught in the shade of a stunted sagebrush

You glare at me,

Patient, unmoving, tremulous

And I donít recognize you.




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