Morning After All

The neighborhood, dark.
It’s five-thirty in the morning, after all.

The neighborhood, cool.
It’s January, after all.

Two great horned owls on a roof.
It’s the suburbs, after all.

Exchanging hoo, hoo, hooting.
A low baritone purr, after all.

I stop my run to look up.
Hope not to stifle the owl-y incantations, after all.

Two morning rooftop silhouettes.
Me, recipient of the benediction, after all.

Owl meditation mixes with mine.
Look! there’s the sunrise, after all.


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