Seán He­witt

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Barn Owls in Suf­folk Rosary

I watch them for a long while, the pair ris­ing and court­ing the field in day­light, the strange geom­e­try of their faces fun­nelling the air,

and ev­ery­thing - their white­ness, their sense of hav­ing slipped through from an­other world, their fo­cus on the hunt –

in the end it all comes down to their si­lence – the way each feather dis­perses the air, how each wa­vers –

and I won­der what omen it is to see two barn owls hunt­ing in mid-morn­ing, so qui­etly se­cre­tive, for surely

there is some­thing in the slow spread of the wing, the mo­ment of in­verted flight, the liv­ing thing pulled from the earth and lifted.

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