R I C H A R D   S U B B E R



The unseen owl, that one call.

Nothing more.
What was his need? What desire?
Was it a song, so brief?
It pulsed the still night air,
a reaching sound,
meant for some creature to hear,
and I am near.

I call out my one note.
It is no answer, but affirmation:
owl, you are there, I am here.
I think to open my mouth again,
but at once I understand:
my one note is “I” —
invited by the owl’s like call.

I know the creature has heard me,
and now we share awareness,
a known, a kindred comfort.
We accept the reassurance of echo,
an essence of sensation and being,
the wonder of what we cannot see
that is yet real.
Together we call out our declaration,
in these moments we feel secure
against the near boundary of the unknown.








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