The space between the cries of the Screech Owl is larger than the space between mid-October breakers, crash upon crash upon stone. The voice leaves you thinking, someone has left you alone, not for a moment but in the background noise that implies the impossibility of silence. Owl cry is more a sonorous trace than a sound; sound delimits a thing where the trace is a sketch of life already erased, ringlets in the August morning lake where the pebble splunked, a split second before. Erasure, ringlets, the Owl’s cries remind of you of a time when you were both there.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s