A convergence of two owl poems: one, wordless, at Vine…one by Mary Oliver, when we opened Blue Horses:
One has to say this for the rounds of life
that keep coming and going; it has worked so far.
The rabbit, after all, has never asked if the grass
wanted to live.
Any more than the owl consults with the rabbit.
Acceptance of the world requires
that I bow even to you,
Master of the night
—with thanks to Maria Robledo
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