I sat beside my mother's bed as she lay dying. Our eyes met: all the words we could not say. All the missed connections, missed perceptions: in our lifetime, it had always been that way. I released the ways we never got it right; forgave, no need to hold the anger tight. Just "I love you", and her spirit flew away, out of the room, into the starry night.
Weeks later, I was driving towards her home when, in slow motion, across my windshield flew a grey owl, feathered being, infinitely wise, as she passed me, looking deep into my eyes. Time was suspended, on this point of traveling. Somehow I felt a message had been received and, somewhere in my spirit sore, unraveling, I knew all was understood, and I believed. "Owl, swooping sideways into the forest green, bird between two worlds, all that we know and the unseen, wise watcher in the night, friend of the moon, fly after she who left my world too soon."
Fly, messenger of
my tardy transformation
into winter's sky.
Adapted from a very old poem for Victoria's prompt at dVerse : to write a nonfiction haibun that includes an owl.