After too much
I had forgotten how to fly.
There was a small owl with me
on the old dirt road by the wind.
It was a very dark gray,
like an ash.
Its beak moved, it opened and shut,
opened and closed,
but I had also forgotten the language
of owls.
I could see that its wings
were too short
and it too could not fly,
but it had never
forgotten how.
And it saw
that I no longer understood.
Two times I tried simply
leaning into the wind,
and both times I flopped on the ground.
And the small owl waddled over to me
and it peered into my face
and its beak moved
and moved,
but it did not speak.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem