Owls

The four owls rise
in the moonlight,
a group of dark secrets,
like four corners of a room,
holding their sorrows close—
wise and still,
watching the stars shift
through velvet blackness,
filling their gaze with wonder.
The symbol of twilight,
the hymn of the night,
they muse to themselves,
to the skies,
to the fleeting moments
that slip away,
on cat feet,
wanting only to understand
the quiet heart of the dark.

• Mary Oliver