“Little Owl” by A.E Stallings.

It’s not what we see, but what sees us
Makes us who we are.
Do you remember years ago on Spetses,
Under the evening star,
As the surf rolled and rolled on its glass dowel
We strolled along the sea road
And spied a little owl
Less a bird
Than a small clay jar
Balanced implausibly on an olive branch,
A drab still vessel attuned to whatever stirred,
Near or far:
Hedgehog shuffling among windfall of figs,
Gecko, mouse.
Then she swiveled the orbit of her gaze upon us
Like the Cyclops eye-beam of a lighthouse.


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