THE LITTLE OWL

Too much to think about.
She closes her eyes,
Becomes all ears
And retires.
His eyes, although closed, remain open
On the golden drop of his beak
Shining like a tear
On his scratched body.
She opposes a horizontal wisdom
To the wind that rustles between its feathers
And molts its vertical body
In an occult forest.
Resting on the tips of her paws,
On some imaginary branch
She reinvents balance
And conjectures harmony.