The Owl

It only comes out at night, wings folded, to meet the buzzing of the street lights. Searching for the silver moon whose light is overwhelmed by that of the city, stars outshone by red and blue and yellow, I wait to hear it.

Swaddled in the sheets, suffocating, alone in a bed for two, I perk my ears to hear its soothing coos. I sigh, imagining its great wings outstretched, its eyes piercing with intent for its song. The owl never fails me.

For months I dream awake, hoping to be anywhere but the danger of my bed, and the emptiness of the room in an apartment shared by indifference. My owl will take me away.

I kick and tear at the bedclothes, writhing and struggling against the cold body next to me. I escape to the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of the great creature, wanting to straddle its back as it makes its nightly hunt, disappearing at the first glimpse of light.

But pulling back the curtains, hundreds of smudged windows stare back at me, dark and vacant. A scrawny tree whips wildly in the spring breeze and I now know no birds could perch here, not my animal.