Owls in the oaks wake me with their incessant questioning.
"Who?"
Night after night.
My eyes stretched wide open, as useless in that black cave
as my car keys,
Everything dead still.
Except for the Owls. Are they standing at my feet, twin
bedposts? Do they expect me to answer? What is the answer, anyway? Even if I
knew, and told them, they would keep after me with more of the same.
Damn them to hell. They push me to face it, now I wonder
too.
Lying back on what must be a bed of dry guano, deep in the
bowels of a cave, flanked by my inquisitors and their demands to know...
“Who?”
Dreams are the only source of light. Perhaps I'll find the
answers there...perhaps I never woke at all, still bracing for that harrowing
cry,
the incessant questioning of the Owls in the oaks...
"Who?'
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