Today I read of totem animals,
those creatures that in our youth
we saw ourselves,
and I reflected:
I am at home in northern Illinois,
in those preteen years before
wonderment gives way to the
tangled growth of adolescence.
In the late summer,
my mother is calling from the front yard.
We are one of the first families
to move this edge of town —
brick and siding standing alone.
A creek wanders in the rear,
behind Annie Glidden’s rusted wire.
Boys step through carefully, in
jean shorts and Chicago Bulls tees.
My stepfather saw a beaver there once
I did too
or, at least, I wanted to.
The sky relaxes into a gray-blue evening
Mom shouts again, “come out fast!”
Bursting from of the garage and skidding on the driveway
I make out a great horned silhouette
atop my neighbor’s roof.
In haunting grace, she stands:
Owl.
She is mystery
She is known
She is the country meeting the city
And now, I realize, so am I.
Yep, changed the name of this little weekly feature. It’s a little more simple, and simple is awesome. The superbly written inspiration for this poem can be found here on Tricycle and in the hearts and minds of Midwestern boys.
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