I have no desire to go back to it
the news
pouring in every day about
how bad the world is
The details
must be consumed
sat with
Then the comments
inevitably arise
contradictions silences
How am I supposed to know anything?
I just live in this little metal house
on the side of a somewhat busy street
across from the seminary
where the stations of the cross
were planted within a protective grove
of cedars
Where owls fly in at dusk
like planes landing smoothly
on the runway
without a sound
a bump
Whenever I hear them
hooting through my open kitchen window
by some strange command
I must stop whatever it is I’m doing
and listen
Listen, for what?
For owls
hooting at dusk. Hunting
is what they’re doing.
Murdering, if you
come right down to it
So why does it give me
pleasure why does it make me
stop whatever I’m doing
and listen
You never hear the cries of their victims
living on the soft needled
floor of the grove
whose only wish is the same as yours
mine to stay alive
another hour another day
To keep doing whatever it is
we do
Why is my allegiance
so firmly on the side of the owls
with their sharp beaks
talons
night vision
goggles?
Don’t ask me.
I only live here
in this little metal house
on the side of a somewhat busy street.
Well this is very meta, commenting on my own Substack! Anyhoo, for the tree enthusiasts among us (you know who you are) I want to say - my first thought upon waking this morning was, cedars don't have needles!
So, I thought, the word "needled" had to be redacted from the poem, while I wondered if I need(l)ed to find another adjective to replace it, or if the line read ok without it ..
Meanwhile, I did a bit of quick internet reading about cedars, and apparently some do have needles. However, I had also walked across the street earlier to look at the cedars as well as the floor of the grove I write about in the poem. Didn't look like needles to me! The floor is a kind of springy mass of dropped leaves and branches, etc.. And the leaves of the trees themselves (I don't know what else to call the green foliage on trees if it isn't needles, except leaves!) is flat and lacy, and seems to drop in whole pieces onto the ground, where it turns a nice dry brown.
So the poem could be correct, or "correct" in a way, even if not totally factual about the actual grove I write about ..
I think in subsequent drafts I'll still take out "needled"!