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Downhill I came, hungry, and yet not starved; Cold, yet had heat within me that was proof Against the North wind; tired, yet so that rest Had seemed the sweetest thing under a roof. Then at the inn I had food, fire, and rest, Knowing how hungry, cold, and tired was I. All of the night was quite barred out except An owl’s cry, a most melancholy cry Shaken out long and clear upon the hill, No merry note, nor cause of merriment, But one telling me plain what I escaped And others could not, that night, as in I went. And salted was my food, and my repose, Salted and sobered, too, by the bird’s voice Speaking for all who lay under the stars, Soldiers and poor, unable to rejoice.

Beneath her nest, a shrew's head, a finch's beak and the bones of a quail attest the owl devours the hour, and disregards the rest.

The flight attendants go from kore to semaphore as a city falls into discredited ether— Gewick, gewick, oo-oo! Shoulderless stoic, take—from hands wisely gloved— a bony treat through the hardware in your face; shrug your throat.

1 No one knows where I’m going, not even me. Although that owl I heard outside last night might lead me to the terrain and call out the custodians so they can surround and welcome me, or do whatever they want to do. I won’t speak, won’t say my name even if they try to coerce me, or play unearthly music, such as sailors hear far out on the Atlantic, in fog so thick they venture to climb it to reach clear sky. Some do and speak of large blue birds that glide there silently as ghosts, but those men return too damaged to speak much or stay above ground very long. The owl could tell more, if he wanted, but he won’t. And not only that, he’s decided he will never be seen. 2 I’m happy to honor that, but I’d like to know what kind of owl he is. I mean, is he blue, or is he striped so he can blend with the forest? Is he tall and white, from the Arctic, or a pygmy, from further south? Is he long-eared or spectacled? I want to hear again the noise he made, was it a screech, or a staccato huhuhu followed by a deep-drawn whoo, or did it sound like wood being sawn? I am ashamed I paid it no attention. I did not know then he was a messenger, albeit a taciturn one. How does he know me, and why is he so interested? Once a parrot took stock of me, learnt to speak my name in exactly the tones I said it in, mimicked it endlessly and so loudly that I ran from my laughing friend’s house with my shrill-voiced name hurling after me. 3 Where does the owl go during the day? How can he know I’ll still be here when he surfaces? I do take trains — I go north sometimes, pulled by my past. I fly to places. Will he know all this and follow me everywhere? When can I expect his sounds to morph into spoken words that I understand and act on, if I agree with him? But if I decide to stay put, never leave the bedroom, will he get fed up standing there and row away through the night air, hooting a farewell? I don’t think so, no, this fellow is here for the duration of my stay on this enormous ball and could tell right now how long that will be, and what messy adventures are still ahead of me, but his trick is to keep as schtum on such stuff as the wooden owl on my bedside table. 4 I’ve heard stories about owls, how they appear from nowhere at the edge of things to sit watching, usually staying silent, but sometimes uttering a few words in their night language we don’t understand. That’s my fellow, although I don’t know him. Should I leave the house and hold my right arm out for him to land on and turn his big eyes on me? As if he’d be so compliant. Or should I try to forget him, pretend he’s not there in the dark, like a tree I hadn’t noticed growing? Oh, at least I should stop mentioning him here, but what else can I write about? Not the journey I’m taking that I know nothing of, not yet, and when I do I mightn’t feel like writing. I think the solution might be to buy a T-shirt with an owl printed on it, a blue owl, on a yellow shirt, and write about that small fellow to begin with. 5 What I want to learn is this: do owls ever venture inside, to stand on a corner- table, cock their heads to one side, and take in completely what’s going on? There are mice here that may be welcome, but I know my owl would be suspicious. He’d assume I want him inside to see what he looks like, to make friends with him, so he’ll be kind to me. I could promise to wear a blindfold and say nothing, act like I don’t know he’s there, but I will know and that’s enough. I think I hear his thoughts and I’m sure he hears mine. I feel his big eyes on me all the time. Maybe I should start carrying the wooden owl around with me, and practice owl noises. When is he going to tell me what he has to? I’m not asking for a map, but I’d like to know where I’m headed, if not where I’ll end up. And I’d like to know it as soon as I can. 6 When I say I hear his thoughts, I hear some, not the important ones. And here’s one of mine — if he ventured inside this house he’d see something that might intrigue him, a hand-knitted toilet roll cover, in rings of purple, red, and white. Like an unknown planet hanging in the sky. I’d let him have it, take it back to his nest, or his hollow tree trunk, or his half-sunken boat. I know he’ll assume this is another example of special pleading, and I accept that. Would I do better to ignore him, let him stay out there, like a pinecone that remains unobserved? I saw my doctor yesterday, he spoke of the deterioration, and I felt the owl was hiding in a cupboard, agreeing with every word. After that I went to my sister’s grave and the owl flew back to wherever he’s been ordered to lurk while observing me. Maybe I should feel privileged to have his full-time attention. 7 This morning I captured a beetle climbing the parsley. I put him in an empty matchbox, wondering what the owl thought of this. Would it impact what might be unfolding? I doubted this. I slipped on some spidery jazz that I knew would annoy the owl. He needed to be in control. I ground coffee beans and made espresso. The aroma wafted through the house. I freed the beetle to explore the table, and when it wandered off the edge I let it. I’m sure it survived, but I’m not bothered, just as I know the owl doesn’t care about me. We are thrown together, all of us, by winds that come here from far-off worlds. I sipped my coffee, humming the tune spun through the jazz, and I felt quite well for the first time in weeks, even months. Was the owl watching — had he been in contact with the beetle? And what was their collective verdict on me? Did it add up to more negative evidence? 8 OK, I’m blanking him. I watched a crow today, really admired how he operated, looking after the young ones, his partner, none of this spying on others. I’ve decided I don’t like owls, their self-absorption, or their nosiness about people. I know which I’d rather be. And I don’t have to deal with a crow stalking me. The owl would laugh about these thoughts. He’s been given the task of waiting to release, when he can, exactly what I need to know or what he can reveal. I admit he’s not easy but, shit, he’s the dumb card I’ve been dealt and I have to pretend I like him. Can I ask him about the Oxford and Cambridge rowers, or about the hairdressers the Louisianians use, or the tiger cubs that Texans keep as pets? The owl would make minced meat of them all. I wish he would hoot another noise to me. I might even acknowledge his importance, given my situation, but I won’t reveal anything. 9 I felt the presence of the owl last night. He was in the room with me. Not literally — he appeared in a dream, where a blue van struggled up an icy road before sliding back in a horrible, wriggling way, to what felt like an end. I’m not sure how it seemed so. And I can’t say where the owl was in this little film, except he was definitely there. This morning I came down the stairs, expecting some sign from him. I found a few brown feathers on a white plate on the kitchen table. OK, then, he must be a brown owl, but why donate some feathers, and what did these denote? I made coffee, then put on a CD of Anouar Brahem’s oud that seemed to suit the moment. And I decided it was the time to poach two eggs to serve on top of two slices of rye bread while I primed the espresso machine again and asked myself what the owl was saying. 10 Those feathers were gone from the plate when I went back for them this evening, so I wondered if maybe I’d imagined them, or if they’d fluttered up from the eggs before I’d poached them. That doubt was caused by the owl, I was sure — I’d made him careless, and he was recovering his poise, his control. And I was back in the place where I knew nothing, where he liked me to be. I opened the door and stood there, listening, but no owl sound came. Then a bat just barely avoided my head, and glided toward the moon. I stood watching this leathery fellow, then closed the door, and opened some wine. How much did the owl control? Would I be attacked by a rat tonight while I slept, not savagely, but enough to terrify me? Or would cockroaches swarm on my duvet, clicking enough to wake me? The idea being that these would render me so punch-drunk I’d welcome whatever the owl had to say. 11 I spent the morning drawing owl after owl on bits of paper, and after I’d got somewhere near a proper depiction, I found a black marker and reproduced it on an A2 drawing page which I Pritt Sticked onto the gable wall, then I dug out my old black bow and four arrows and unleashed these into the body of the owl. I knew I was being provocative, maybe even launching an act of war, but I could take no more, and couldn’t see what I had to lose. The owl clearly was unmoved by this, so I repeated the desecration four times over till the drawn owl looked machine-gunned, whereupon I flung the bow down on the grass and went in to pour a large glass of  Talisker for the first time in months, if not years. It still tasted good. I slipped on Kind of Blue, which always chilled me, and lay on the sofa with my shoes kicked off, and the curtains wide open. I thought, let the owl do his worst. 12 When the dark came, I lurked in the kitchen, bow in hand, arrows in the quiver that hung from my left shoulder, like the Robin Hood I wanted to play in the school pantomime — I got Little John instead! I kept looking out at the dark garden, wondering if I should be there, waiting to fire arrows at any sound or movement. Why did I want to kill the owl? He hadn’t given me the news I dreaded, but he’d stayed silent. That was more than I could bear. I poured a glass of Malbec and put on a CD of Baltic jazz. Did he think I could wait forever, as if I were a rock? I sliced some cheddar and a heel of bread, opened the back door and went out. The moon turned its big eye onto me, and I saw it wobble. The stars hummed along.Where am I going? I shouted at all of them. There was no response. Then far off, I heard a faint huhuhu followed by a whoo. You cowardly bastard! I roared, and sprayed the arrows all over the blackened world.

In October of the year, he counts potatoes dug from the brown field, counting the seed, counting the cellar’s portion out, and bags the rest on the cart’s floor. He packs wool sheared in April, honey in combs, linen, leather tanned from deerhide, and vinegar in a barrel hooped by hand at the forge’s fire. He walks by his ox’s head, ten days to Portsmouth Market, and sells potatoes, and the bag that carried potatoes, flaxseed, birch brooms, maple sugar, goose feathers, yarn. When the cart is empty he sells the cart. When the cart is sold he sells the ox, harness and yoke, and walks home, his pockets heavy with the year’s coin for salt and taxes, and at home by fire’s light in November cold stitches new harness for next year’s ox in the barn, and carves the yoke, and saws planks building the cart again.

Christmas Eve, and twelve of the clock. “Now they are all on their knees,” An elder said as we sat in a flock By the embers in hearthside ease. We pictured the meek mild creatures where They dwelt in their strawy pen, Nor did it occur to one of us there To doubt they were kneeling then. So fair a fancy few would weave In these years! Yet, I feel, If someone said on Christmas Eve, “Come; see the oxen kneel, “In the lonely barton by yonder coomb Our childhood used to know,” I should go with him in the gloom, Hoping it might be so.

Homeless and never sadder, dragging bags, spending money, leaning over luggage, suddenly saying, “Without you, God, I can’t continue.” Who was that? And then I lift it and walk to find one book. Up Iffley Turn to the Hawkwell and Tree Inns and down over a lock into an extended filthy river through the Thames Valley and over a meadow into town: two fats, one fishing and one man on a bike swerving through Cotswold cow pads. I ask: “Do you know the fastest way to City Centre?” No, yes, no! Circle Magdalen College, and the mall, the High, Broad Street,

I’ve caught fish everwhichaway they can be. On the Chattahoochee River I’ve used nets, gigs, trot lines, and bare hands. Even electricity. One day Braleigh and me caught so many that two-ended punt boat nearly went under. We were boys and didn’t know any better. Catfish were plentiful as water for all we could figure. That was back then. We’d wrap the copper pipe and drop it in, then use the telephone battery to make a wet cell of that whole muddy dogleg of the river. The small channel cats would rise, then recover, but big whites and blues would float, belly up, and we’d haul ’em in, fill the boat to the oarlocks with fresh fish to eat or sell. Their backs shined so bright it was a wonder. But let me tell you this: it was also a danger. If you caught the coil wrong or touched iron binding on that old craft with a live wire, it was enough to knock you on your ass. A man could get killed just trying to catch fish. Of course, such a method was a sin against Jesus and man, fish and fresh water, but we didn’t savvy. We were just free as gnats for the summer, a little enterprising and a little hungry. Besides, we hadn’t heard of sport or mercy. That was a cooter’s age ago. That was then.

At five o’clock in the morning, I walked to work and passed the green ponds of Horizon Park where the last bluegill, caught on the low, slight bank, panted hard in the dark mud, crushed glass, sour bottle caps, whiskey, and the iron weight of heat and smog. This haze stared through eyes gray as the broken window panes on the cheap side of town, and when this haze held you and whispered in your ears its quiet tragedies, it stole your breath quick as time. This is where men gathered to sell peanuts, buckets of oranges, and roses, and they sat on the benches and watched the trucks drive by and disappear. What I want to say is simple: a man must do more than sell roses where the bums go and beg— he must keep something holy. He must breath the winds that rustle the orchards of the valley where the white almond blooms replenish with their soft scent. He must learn from the Appaloosa when she walks in from the fields and bows her head to a trough of water that reflects nothing but her eyes and the stars. Shoulder, fat, bone, and loose sheet metal banged out a day-long cacophony. Twenty-eight pounds of spice had to be mixed before the grinder was done. Mustard powder, paprika, salt, and chili powder boiled in my nose, in my eyes, and in the red throb of my hard nicked-up knuckles. By late morning the meat defrosted, and the boxes began their ooze. Pig parts became easy to recognize. Eighty pounds of guts, kidneys, and stomach fell across my chest each time a box ripped apart. We dared not stop the music of our work: the clack of a clean pine pallet, pink meat and white fat ground to a pulp, sweetened, stuffed, and crimped, the chorizo boxed, the boxes labeled, stacked, and wrapped. At lunch, I watched Guillermo hunker over the table and dig into his stew—carrots, potatoes, celery, oxtail, and gravy, made from chili peppers and fat, smoldering in a ceramic bowl. Guillermo took out a white cotton napkin and spread it evenly across his lap, picked up a piece of sourdough ripped from a loaf and soaked the bread in the stew for a long time . . . his own tired body taking back what the work took, and he ate. He sucked on chili peppers the color of blood and took another bite of the bread. He sucked out the beef from the eyes of the bones and gnawed on the soft marrow, and he drank hot coffee sweetened con canela. “Eloisa,” he said, “can cook,” and he touched the brown lace crocheted into the edge of his cotton napkin, rubbed his gut, wiped the table, and walked out to complete his work.

sometimes ( when the night air feels ch é vere! ) when i can hear the real sound of el barrio on la conga        y timbales coke bottles & garbage can tops when i can feel & reallyreally touch la m ú sica Latina /     africana & the fingerpoppin' soul emergin from tears /     sweet tears of laughter & i can feel a conglomeration of vibrations / heat waves body waves people waves of real gente