PYGMY OWLS

                           —  for Crawdad Nelson

I remember the first time I saw 

a family of pygmy screech owls
marching out of a burrow at dusk,
we were riding the donkeys home

around the last bend before the barn.
I thought the gophers had gone mad,

or taken leave of their senses,
until I realized they were small owls,

on a Groucho Marx drill parade. 

With white eyebrows raised,

wings tucked back, they gravely 

inspected a forest of equine legs,

a slow moving grove of hairy saplings. 

How many times had we passed their door 

walking home from school, sight unseen?

On the backs of our mounts,
we were the invisible ones.