This was an intimidating client, large stature, potentially violent if he felt pressed, and made an angry comment at me. Hence:
I am like an owl of the desert.
The slight arced over ten years
like a ruddy owl winging over a clearing at sunset.
Through seasons it perches and rises, perches and rises;
molting feathers pierce soft ground
like quill pens inking dark spots.
Broods of owlets peer
from hollows in the wood
and in my grizzled beard.
The trifle arches its talons over a decade
curling back at me. I hatch the memory
endlessly. Under a crescent moon
hooting sounds louder and louder
as shadows of wings beat away light.
My prayers rise like buzzards on thermal gusts.
How long will tons of feathers smother me
as I lie awake in the wood,
hiding Your face from me?