In the deepest stillness of the coldest, quietest starry nights, when even the coyotes have gone to ground in their dens, I stand outside and shiver to hear the sound of the owls talking to each other each in their turn.

I’ve never written better poetry. I’ve never heard a more mysterious and meaningful song.

The language is the word of life and of death, of the fleeting miracle of being able to hear at all.

Time itself growing ever shorter to the finite point of entropy.

Blood rushing heedlessly through sinew anyway.

Feather, fur, spasm, release.