What happened
to the owl, here?

It used to perch on
the corner of the roof

above the back bedroom,
and one summer

there were three,
if not a parliament,

at least a party,
a triangulation of HOO,

Hoo, and hoo,
the farthest just

beyond the property line,
and then there was that one

that just went
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

the only animal sound
I’ve been able to duplicate

convincingly, and so
we went back and forth,

my mom doubled over
with laughter, the little dog

going crazy inside—
funny, but this retelling

worries me, as it’s mainly
a way of holding on,

and we don’t make stories
unless a thing is going,

gone.