Oh, sweet Jesus,
Thank you for the owls.
In particular the one who
hooted at me
From her perch high in
hidden pines
While I labored in the
field.
Oh, I know,
She hooted not to me,
But to some unknown friend
In the woods across the
fence,
But I heard her,
And her voice spoke to me.
She reminded me
That these woods are not
mine,
As is my hammer, or my
spade.
They are mine as is my
wife,
Mine to love, mine to
serve,
Mine to sing to in the
twilight of the day.
She reminded me that
others
Have loved these woods as
well.
Chickasaw families lived
here,
Ate the wild pecan and
persimmon.
And slaves hid here,
trembling,
Yearning for the freedom
of the birds.
Young men came and hunted
turkey,
Girls came and picked the
berries,
Gathered paw paws.
And her ancestors sang to
them all,
One by one,
And watched them come and
go.
So sweet Jesus, bless the
owl
And give her room to fly,
meadows to hunt,
A tree safe for nesting,
Time to raise her young,
So that who follow
May hear her song
And understand.
George R. Pasley
January 06, 2021
Martin, TN
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