White Owl

In the plaza,
or lifting over the hot pool at midnight,
the white owl carries a message.
Life or death?
Joy or pain?
Perhaps the white owl knows.

Its dropped feather,
on pavement or the surface of water,
may be a hint of what’s to come.

Once I flew,
a white owl
frozen in place in the winter air.
Once I roasted, too warmly dressed,
more accustomed to fir tree than palm.

The white owl
may know its place or may not.

We are the ones
who bring him here,
out of his climate,
off his familiar branch.

Who?
Who has brought him?
What, what is the message?