An owl sat once with his sharp hearing, his watchfulness,
his bill, half-grown, majestic on my finger;
then I felt his huge and yellow stare
plant something foreign in me, a deep quiet,
a mad freedom; my heart laughed
when the bird raised his soft wings.

Thorkild Bjornvig, B. 1918, From “The Owl”

Today I saw a red kite flying close to the house here in the Black Forest. A rare sight. This quote from a longer poem strikes a cord. Once I met an owl, twice actually, and each time I was struck deeply by the depth of their presence.

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