To Lora, Back Home in Presque Isle

You were an easy reach that moonless

night inside the Quonset hut, your home,

your last, a safe embracing place up there

in Presque Isle, far beyond my rescuing

grasp, your counselor and would-be savior.

The horned owl plunged in wingspread

sweep to strike its midnight mark. I didn’t

hear the quiet swoop of feathers, couldn’t

blunt the claws that clung to you, to me,

the fatherly me who calls out pathetically.