. . . . she must speak
to men in the language of men with a man’s tongue,
and then they will not hear her
because they understand her.
~Ursula K. Le Guin, ‘While the Old Men Make Ready to Kill”
Aunt, I miss you.
Not many here
Aunt, an owl keeps flying over me.
She wants me to learn to sit still,
hunt words. Wants me to focus,
lock on. I’ve seen her
dive for frogs, sit on a branch
with a green leg dangling
from her beak. I’ve found
marks of her wings in the snow.
I’ve found the blood of rabbit.
I’ve heard her singing in the dark.
Aunt, my hills are covered with snow.
The men still aren’t listening
but the women keep singing
for ourselves and our nieces.
Aunt, we are learning to hunt.
We are still learning to fly.