Before the solstice in December when trees stand stripped on granite ground, I hear them in the woods at dusk, their hollow hooting back and forth, the courtship of the Great Horned Owls, in this, the darkest time of year, light draining from an empty sky, but still they sing, response and call, their slow duet, notes rise and fall, and something deep within me stirs, a new beginning, even now.
