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Solstice: the summer’s premium darkness.
And with it, for the first time in years,
The raspy whinnying of screech owls fills my trees.
Their fledglings’ post-nest points of departure,
I’m guessing again, walking out among them
As though I’d just been summoned.
They’re like little packets of dark matter.
Newel posts perched in silhouette, swiveling me
Into focus with a bob-and-weave of heads.
I’ve missed getting this kind of attention.
Missed their rasped choirs in assembly
Among the fireflies’ shooting stars.
Their wings on the night air like feathering oars.
Copyright 2017 Robert Gibb
Robert Gibb’s latest book is After, selected by Mark Doty as the winner of the 2017 Marsh Hawk Prize.