I am thinking of owls this early morning,
their eyes heavy-lidded, as they tuck their little heads
under their wings and go to sleep for the day.
They have kept watch all night, under the moon,
and must rest before their next vigil.
What do they dream of?
Mice, perhaps, skittering across the forest floor,
their feet jerking in sleep as they dream of pouncing.
Or perhaps they dream of flight,
that swooshing sensation
of casting their bodies with faith, into the air,
the beat beat beat of their feathered pinions,
and the energy it takes
to keep themselves aloft.
Every time they take to the air,
it requires conviction, trust,
and a boundless belief
in their wings.
Yes, I think they dream of flight.