She scatters her little lights through the flight of the owl,
gracefully settling down on the tiniest of branches,
holds his majestic weight like a cloud.
The eyes are watching, building, blowing,
scratching their little rhythms into place,
dividing their little quiet into spaces
unseen, unheard
until the sound of wind comes from the weight of the owl,
brings home fish for bear,
honey for bee
and the simplicity of her little lights,
thinking her unsubstantial thoughts
just so.
We want every moment stacked full of importance, making our contributions real, making us real. But these little lights, they are the grace of a day.
© 2015 Andrea Mathews
