The Owl Poem by Peter Levy

The owl has made its move
In splendor, as is fresh death
A peaceful rest for broken wings
That yearn no more for breath.
How soon, I wonder, shall they come
To triumph and then claim their own
This perfect form that lived beyond
Whatever now makes there its home.
I too took a magic feather
For reasons I don’t know quite why
As if to somehow share in nature
Or keep alive some things that die.
Why this need after life’s debt comes due
Who cares about the owl, or me, or you.