A poem by Michael Graber.
Those awake at that ambrosial hour
won’t speak of eternity’s weird stutter
when all matter—whole planets and suns
larger than our lamp of the Milky Way—
dissolves into darkness and reconstitutes
itself, renewed and revived, outside time.
Only one creature doesn’t dematerialize:
the great horned owl. They aren’t stupid.
They take shelter in a hollowed tree
with enough of a view to witness the world
nod out and return more fertile than before.
Scientists assume dew derives from Earth’s
atmosphere, but the owl knows better,
that the beloved leaves a mist where her lips
kiss creation on the forehead, at this exact lost moment
each night as long as nights exist.