Closing my eyes and sucking a drag of my cigarette, I take in the cold feel of the frigid night air against my skin. It’s been a day and I’m happy enough to swallow the end of it down with the wine and the smoke and the tiny pricks of sadness and loss which never seem to quite leave me no matter how good the good things get.
The thick wet trunks of a half dozen large maple trees encircle me at the back of the yard and if I look up and peer into the pitch darkness, I begin to see beyond the stretch of their bare branches, the stars pierce through the void, little twinkling rushes of dead light, each its own jagged race to burst and burn out in a flash, light years away from the blink of an eye.
Encircled by the blackness, I imagine the owl who used to spend nights and dawns in these trees swooping down and taking his place on a high perch. I used to love his cooing sounds, and would lie in bed holding my breath waiting for each little moan and hoot. There was something so warm and soothing in the hollowness of his presence, his majestic solitude, his solemn song sung monotonous into the empty night for reasons I did not need to understand.
Some people are like that, though they are few and so far between. Most are noise and excuses. But there are some who are creatures of quiet wisdom, with a fierce kind of late night elegance which haunts you as smoothly as it tears into your veins with its sharp curved claws.
Though I am alone in this moment, I imagine eyes all around. The eyes of the trees and the night and the shadows and the animals, all turned upward toward the midnight sky.
If only we could get away from here. If only our roots weren’t so mangled and tight the way they wrap around the frozen barren ground.
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Photo by engin akyurt
Allison Marie Conway 
Reblogged this on The Reluctant Poet.
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The way you have portrayed your emotions and combine them with nature, it makes the whole piece splendid💖.
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I am so truly grateful for your kind and generous comment. I am so glad this resonated with you, dear Sona. ❤ ❤
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Just beautiful. Loved every bit of it. If only our roots weren’t so mangled. The eyes always there, alone or not. And how amazingly comforting that can be at times. Even those moments in the dark, in the night, sitting on the balcony, embracing the solitude, and yet still the eyes brought me a sense of belonging. There on the coast of Turkey. And my God, there was even an owl. I think I have a photo of it somewhere. It used to sit on the post across from me. I loved its voice. We’d stare at each other. Oh yes. “There was something so warm and soothing in the hollowness of his presence, his majestic solitude, his solemn song sung monotonous into the empty night for reasons I did not need to understand.”
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My heart sings to read this comment, dear George. How beautiful you and your precious owl, and I see you have sent me a photo, I just adore it! Owls are otherworldly beings, how I do so miss mine… I pray he returns for me this summer. And the eyes, well, the eyes… such a thing to be watched, to be seen. How often, they are two different things.
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Oh my goodness, yes! I love owls. I remember ages ago, when I was first looking for a home in Turkey, I visited a property in the middle of the day, and as I walked by a tree in the front yard, happened to glance up to spy a wee owl on a branch, which blew me away. I so wanted that house. Can’t even remember what the inside was like; just that there was an owl out front. In the end, it didn’t work out for that house, but the memory stays with me.
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How remarkable, that this memory is burned into you. Isn’t it uncanny how creatures can make such marks inside of us, as if to speak without speaking, but somehow we understand everything they mean to tell us, awaken within us. There is some kind of call and response which cannot be denied, if you are in tune, which you seem so very deeply to be.
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