The snowy owl who chose the Rayburn

Snowy Owl

The hills rolled in their snowy inches

As cars ground to a halt in the hedgerows

While this valley was barely dusted

By a fugitive cloud escaping sideways.

My snowy owl flurried his feathers as I placed him

In the setting for which evolution designed him.

I imagined that a primordial recognition

Would overcome his love of the kitchen.

He stood on the thin crisp of white glitter

And surveyed the idea of an Arctic Tundra

With disdain. It lacked completion.

And the soft white of his feathers

Would not camouflage him

Against the frozen crystal terrain

That would melt in a cow’s breath.

He turned towards my big red front door and ran.

He ran from the cold, from the big outside,

Into the tunnel of hallway, turned left for the kitchen

And back to the safety

Of his perch by the Rayburn.