Knee-deep
in the ferns springing up 
at the edge of the 
whistling swamp

I watch the owl 
with its satisfied, 
heart-shaped face 
as it flies over the water– 

back and forth–
as it flutters down
like a hellish moth
wherever the reeds twitch– 

wherever, in the muddy cover,
some little life sighs
before it slides into the moonlight
and becomes a shadow.

In the distance,
awful and infallible,
the old swamp belches.
Of course

it stabs my heart
whenever something cries out
like a teardrop.
But isn’t it wonderful,
what is happening
in the branches of the pines:
the owl’s young,
dressed in snowflakes,

are starting to fatten– 
they beat their muscular wings,
they dream of flying
for another million years

over the water,
over the ferns,
over the world’s roughage
as it bleeds and deepens.

-Mary Oliver