Updated: Feb 3
There’s a tree somewhere in this town stripped of everything:
leaves, bark, skin.
It’s the color of bone and just as hard in January.
A barred owl swivels his dinner plate head and levitates off the last branch.
That night the current turned
and swept me and the others up
we were tossed about on an ocean of generosity
until the song finally faded.
A great weight flew off my chest.