White Owl Flies Into
 
and Out of the Field
     

By Mary Oliver
    
Coming down

out of the freezing sky

with its depths of light,

like an angel,

or a Buddha with wings,

it was beautiful

and accurate,

striking the snow and whatever was there

with a force that left the imprint

of the tips of its wings—

five feet apart—and the grabbing

thrust of its feet,

and the indentation of what had been running

through the white valleys

of the snow—
    
and then it rose, gracefully,

and flew back to the frozen marshes,

to lurk there,

like a little lighthouse,

in the blue shadows—

so I thought:

maybe death

isn’t darkness, after all,

but so much light

wrapping itself around us—

as soft as feathers—

that we are instantly weary

of looking, and looking, and shut our eyes,

not without amazement,

and let ourselves be carried,

as through the translucence of mica,

to the river

that is without the least dapple of shadow—

that is nothing but light—scalding, aortal light—

in which we are washed and washed

out of our bones.

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