On the diesel train's
shaking floor
there was a screech owl.
Night's bird of prey caught alive on a foggy, northernmost mountain,
with its large, brass-colored eyes glinting,
was firmly holding on to the wire netting of the perchless cage,
bending its sharp, pointed nails.
As I looked in,
it arched its upper body, half-opened its beak,
made as though to leap fiercely
at my face.
What at that moment suddenly came close
and filled the owl's
wide-open eyes
must have been something like the pockmarked surface of the half-moon a reflecting telescope caught.
I drew my face closer
and went into the eyes of the screech owl.
It was pitch-dark there.
Within that palpable volume
something was packed and was moving.
I smelled blood,
raw, but clean.
I smelled intestines.