The barn owls hoot across the night
as if there were nothing there, no branch where they perch,
no stream fumbling its way across the valley floor.
Their cries try to measure if there's such a thing as distance
and whether they should launch from wherever they are
on whatever it is that flaps and makes them feel buoyant and
may one day be called wings.
From Poetry Wales Vol. 29, no.1, July 1993