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| 14 Drawing the Owl One of the first things I did upon my release from the hospital was draw a picture of an owl in my notebook, a distorted bird staring at the space between the mind and severe depression, the mighty force of its eyes making me sketch carefully, though crookedly. The owl stood on the branch until I recovered, its ruffled brown head and folded wings bracing for what comes after healing. I add a tiny mark on the drawing each time the owl flies and a mark when it returns, the bird portraying what can’t be found, the only real owl I ever saw lifting its huge gray wings from the tree next to a decaying cabin in a field of Montana, its sudden rising draping it across my car’s windshield for an instant, a presence called back because it was too early for its flight. ...

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