Last night, an owl <br />in the blue dark <br />tossed <br />an indeterminate number <br />of carefully shaped sounds into <br />the world, in which, <br />a quarter of a mile away, I happened <br />to be standing. <br />I couldn’t tell <br />which one it was – <br />the barred or the great-horned <br />ship of the air – <br />it was that distant. But, anyway, <br />aren’t there moments <br />that are better than knowing something, <br />and sweeter? Snow was falling, <br />so much like stars <br />filling the dark trees <br />that one could easily imagine <br />its reason for being was nothing more <br />than prettiness. I suppose <br />if this were someone else’s story <br />they would have insisted on knowing <br />whatever is knowable – would have hurried <br />over the fields <br />to name it – the owl, I mean. <br />But it’s mine, this poem of the night, <br />and I just stood there, listening and holding out <br />my hands to the soft glitter <br />falling through the air. I love this world, <br />but not for its answers. <br />And I wish good luck to the owl, <br />whatever its name – <br />and I wish great welcome to the snow, <br />whatever its severe and comfortless <br />and beautiful meaning.<br /><br />Mary Oliver<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/snowy-night/
