Who Looks for You

For weeks now, she hoots
from the fir next to our driveway:
a barred owl perched high
where we can’t see her—
unless we toe to the tree’s
knotted trunk and look up.

We listen for her each day.
Who looks for you, who looks
for you now, she calls
from her hidden roost.
Who looks for you, who looks
for you now, her lifelong mate
replies from a nearby oak.

Something about this bird
possesses you and me—
some owling now, a fierce
calling from the warmth
of clutch, the hope of hatchlings,
the promise they’ll one day
nestle broods of their own
and in someone else’s
distant spring, hoot and swoop
the air of this place
where, for a time, I spoke
your name and held you close.