A cellphone’s flashlight beam selects your face
watching from a high branch skeptically—         
We’ve found you now, ghost owl, lodged cryptically
above us, grim observer. Fixed in place,         

you shine, a constellation pulled from space,         
made feather, flesh, and talon. Carelessly,
our cellphone casts a cool light on your face         
while you look down and watch us skeptically,

unruly lovers grounded, who gave chase
to Tyto alba flying noiselessly. . . .        
How could we hope our words, imperfectly, 
would capture your dark world, as if to trace
a straight line to the sky, your heart-shaped face         
remote, your cold gaze watching skeptically?