I don’t know whether the hoot owl
woke me with its mournful coo
or if I first heard it after my dog

nosed playfully at my side of the bed
asking to go outside. Memory is such a quirky
and human thing, like death, like life

or what we know of it. As little as we know
of death we probably know less of life,
we suspect, all our life is suspicion, guessing

and we all wish that death will somehow
make it more certain, make it better even.
Even if better is the simple end to speculation.

Regardless, we dream and write of afterlife.
I wanted to tell you how the owl hooting
in the night with my big black dog by my side

and the thought of my father perhaps dying soon
touched me. I almost cried for him but I failed.
Such is life. This is what we live with.

Good night.