Shelter, and: Owl

Shelter

At the edge of the piney woods lived a fatherwho loved his children so much he riggedbear traps in a circle around the yard—notto keep his children in, but to keep danger out.To make up for the loneliness, he gave them eacha goat, slat-eyed and calm. But the childrenwere soon desperate for more. He'd see themon the porch, prying apart the blue flowersthat twist themselves shut at night. They spent hoursby a dead raccoon caught in one of the traps:grubs in its sides, belly split open, bones showingthrough the skin. They hunted small snakesin the garden and cut them lengthwise to studythe slackened mice. At night the fathercould hear them talking about what death looked like.Then one day they found a white-tailed deertwenty feet up in a tree, its hide sloughing offin long strips. This was just beyond the yard.Nearby they found blood in the dirt, a beaten patchof grass where something huge had slept,the prints of a big cat circling the traps. They decidedon a plan. At sunset they tied the oldest goatto a bush. They gave it a plate of berries.Then they sat on the porch and waited,flashlights dark in their shaking hands. From bedtheir father heard the goat. Of course he thoughtit was one of his children. He ran outsideand saw everything, the pet tethered by the traps,the blankets on the porch. He checkedon his children—they were in bed sleeping, fully clothed, so he went to the goat.It was terrified. He untied it, rubbed its forehead,walked it back to the barn. Later the children wokeand saw the goat was missing. They ran to their fatherand told him what they'd done. This timehe could fix it. He led them to the barn,the goat alive in its stall. But that night,while they slept, he killed a chicken and strung iton a rope out in the woods. When the mountain lioncame to smell the carcass, he shot it, thenwent home and made oatmeal for the children,sat at the table and said nothing while they ate.

Owl

One day you and I will have a housetogether. We'll drink wine by the stoveand leave the kitchen door open

to let in the night. Until one eveninga barn owl flies in through the door.

He'll perch on the fridge and look downfrom beside the bottles, his faceround and clean as a dish. You'll know

what to do. You'll turn off the lights,the music, the blue flame. I'll open

the windows. We'll find an old blanketand sit on the porch, and we'll listento our house become wild. It will sound

like the owl is asking, When is it due?When is it due? I'll keep expecting him

to miss the stars, but you won't be surprisedwhen he chooses to stay. That night,when the wind picks up, you'll tell me

about a woman your grandparents knew,who taught her parrot to sing

in her dead husband's voice. Againand again, the same tune: Howcan this be true? How can this be true?