His beak could open a bottle, br and his eyes - when he lifts their soft lids - br go on reading something br just beyond your shoulder - br Blake, maybe, br or the Book of Revelation. br br Never mind that he eats only br the black-smocked crickets, br and the dragonflies if they happen br to be out late over the ponds, and of course br the occasional festal mouse. br Never mind that he is only a memo br from the offices of fear - br br it’s not size but surge that tells us br when we’re in touch with something real, br and when I hear him in the orchard br fluttering br down the little aliminum br ladder of his scream - br when I see his wings open, like two black ferns, br br a flurry of palpitations br as cold as sleet br rackets across the marshlands br of my heart br like a wild spring day. br br Somewhere in the universe, br in the gallery of important things, br the babyish owl, ruffled and rakish, br sits on its pedestal. br Dear, dark dapple of plush! br A message, reads the label, br from that mysterious conglomerate: br Oblivion and Co. br The hooked head stares br from its house of dark, feathery lace. br It could be a valentine.