I write on the back of a scrap envelope,
a message from Target that my account may have been compromised.
The snowy owl teases us at the beach again,
flying from the peaked-hut of Daniel's Mexican Food
to a snow-packed dune, dirty with blown sand.
He/She stands as an emblem,
elusive nature in a city by the shore.
We have lived here these many years, never migrating
--as opposed to the snowy owl we've come to observe--
lived in Uptown on snow-packed sidewalks,
dirty with trash trodden underfoot.
We'll see out the old, say goodbye to all that is gone
to friends who have moved on
and to the farm, to the lake, the festival
the businesses that have folded.
We are on the cusp of something new,
though it is hard to know, living in this ordinary.
We sometimes forget where we've come from
or we are overwhelmed by our frailties, our fears.
So that the new stares back at us, like an enemy.
But it is only the snowy owl,
fleeting, here one minute and gone the next
landing arbitrarily, beyond us.
This is what we have to look forward to:
More snow, more owls, more wind-driven sand,
more notices from Target, more every day ordinary-ness,
more of more, out there, on the horizon, eyes wide open