The Owls of Paris
  
The island cathedral looms, owls tucked in every trefoil,
talons scraping every ledge. Full of empty despair,
eyes cast down, you pad across the parvis
watching each foot strike the stone.
You don’t see them above.
Where will you go now, what will you do?
Exiled, you can’t go back: you’re not wanted.

Owls calmly watch you, tracking the path of your
tiny form tethered to the ground, leaning toward the Left Bank.
The owls exist, not trapped in our narrow lateral world,
but in their vertical kingdom of up and down—all directions.

There are more than two ways to move.
Start over.
Stand on Kilometer Zero, clap your hands three times,
owls will come to help you.
 
​©Jeff Fiorito 2014