Before the dark-eyed owl came, flying
toward me, I was going to quit for the day.
It flew, a bird of many feathers, I stayed,
and before the dog roused, with its bark and bite,
I sank down feelers into sandy soil,
I planted footings, one on every corner,
enough to be level, balanced, and still
portable. I could be moved, I could be
nomad, and for the first time in four or
five years, I sensed a breathing on my own,
a careless way of throwing down sweater, scarf,
bracelet or book, this moment for swooping deep
into silence, carried on a magical chair—
to a space rarely visited, newly found,
where thought is a lush country, fragrant, wide.