Last night, an owl br in the blue dark br tossed br an indeterminate number br of carefully shaped sounds into br the world, in which, br a quarter of a mile away, I happened br to be standing. br I couldn’t tell br which one it was – br the barred or the great-horned br ship of the air – br it was that distant. But, anyway, br aren’t there moments br that are better than knowing something, br and sweeter? Snow was falling, br so much like stars br filling the dark trees br that one could easily imagine br its reason for being was nothing more br than prettiness. I suppose br if this were someone else’s story br they would have insisted on knowing br whatever is knowable – would have hurried br over the fields br to name it – the owl, I mean. br But it’s mine, this poem of the night, br and I just stood there, listening and holding out br my hands to the soft glitter br falling through the air. I love this world, br but not for its answers. br And I wish good luck to the owl, br whatever its name – br and I wish great welcome to the snow, br whatever its severe and comfortless br and beautiful meaning.