Spotting

Spotting

I have been waiting for so long;

to see you again.

Its been years since I last spotted you.

On my birthday, an afternoon, you showed yourself to me.

I run here almost every other day,

and check if you’ve made your way back.

I run through a signal, across train tracks and a pedestrian bridge.

There is an open gate delivering me from asphalt to padded ground,

where hemlock has grown far above my head.

At one point the path is submerged,

three slender logs, in succession, lie against a rusted iron fence.

I know exactly which log not to trust,

and when to leap for the puddle’s shore.

Through another gate there is a causeway,

It is much more fun to take the circuitous path next to the waterfront.

With ups and downs to accelerate,

bottles and twine left by fisherman to hurdle.

I venture out there around Cesar Chavez park just before sunset.

Each time, slowing when I reach a sign marking your intermittent dwelling.

Stepping onto a block wall, I peer across a corner preserved for you by lovers of wildthings.

But today, time is pushed forward.

A family walk extends into the evening,

with darkness almost arrived.

Moist gray air, still water, damp ground.  

Two boys thrash sticks at hemlock,

orioles and sparrows chortle back through branches.

Reaching your preserved corner, factory lights diffract across water toward your hillside.

A labyrinth of burrows beneath my feet,

you may be tucked inside a deep side chute.

Built for you by your compadres, the voluptuous squirrels.

Maybe you bring a nice little gift for your hosts who do not seem to mind your hanging about.  

I jump upon the block to spot you,

no longer in anticipation, just a diurnal rhythm.

It’s now so very dark.

A horn blows twice hitting my back.

Still, nothing. Oh, well.

Further down the path,

my family is pointing.

Spotters, much better than I.

Sure, enough lights glean across the grass and two sharp horns are barely perceivable.

Six or seven centimeters, a round body protrudes from the Earth.

White breast, black eyes, white face, brown wings.

Stillness, it could be a rock but its shape is undeniable.

So wise, this visitor waits until dark when dogs and their walkers have long piled into their hatchbacks.

An hour, to push out a cubby and prey a corner’s delights.

Wings, beat suddenly into a gray blanket.

A form plunges toward water,

Something dangles from beak.

Instantly, wings refold on a grassy knoll.

A statue in darkness once again, two black eyes no longer discernible.

Hunger pangs, yanks on my sleeve, time to go.

Reluctant burrowing owl, until we meet again.