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A Lesson in Depth

The night bird seems an unlikely predator: white, entirely—even the eyes, even the beak. A calligraphic bird, pared to essentials—Egyptian? Greek? A creature possible only in profile, devised for an urn, but prematurely hatched to the curvature of time and space. Eyes opaque. It can’t possibly see me. Can it see me? It perches on my sill now, backed by the murk of its own howl-shaped shadow, beak bright as bone. And its bones? Hollow, composed of light—and still somehow their density buckles the landscape. Watch the night bird’s watchfulness, you’d swear it was advancing toward a terrible purpose, though not a feather stirs. Talons cruel and curved, beak cruel and curved, and all the glare of earth’s cruel curve alive in the white frontiers of its eyes.