visitor tender square i’m captivated by fire; i can’t stop myself from watching the flames flicker and flit. my vision becomes myopic, everything coalesces into a singular darkness around that light in the backyard. during monday night’s full moon, michael and i were visited by something we couldn’t see. we could hear it coming towards us, a tremolo call sounding so close it could have been beside us. it resembled a horse neighing. “what the fuck is that?” i’d never heard anything like it before either. i thought someone in a nearby yard was messing with us. there was no rustling movement in the trees surrounding the yard or on the ground below. michael got up from his adirondack chair to get a flashlight from inside. i was alone with the sound, and it was nearer. i curled my feet up into my chair, hugging my body close, frozen but wanting to flee. michael shone a light in the direction of the noise, but it continued. we couldn’t see anything in the beam. i took the flashlight from him and aimed for the area, as i was closer to the source. the sound stopped. again, there was no rustling of any kind to signal that an animal moving away from us. we looked it up the following day and it turns out we were visited by an eastern screech-owl. this owl is very small, is common in residential areas, and goes undetected because of its strict nocturnal habits. owls have noiseless wings because of their specialty feathers; they are capable of flying inches from their prey without being heard. the “book of symbols,” my go-to guide, remarkably, does not offer much in terms of this image, but i’ve unearthed some other interesting material: uniguide says that some meanings around this symbol taken from myth and folklore include wisdom, intuition, supernatural power, independent thinking, and observant listening. the author for the article writes, “owls exist for their own purposes. they are not here *for* us. however, they have much to teach us.” i’m poised with pen in hand. 210923 ... kerry she came with a bottle of red wine and a box of cookies and biscotti from isgro’s pastries, the (self-proclaimed) oldest italian bakery in the city. took off her long black coat, looked around, absorbed the space. black bell bottoms, a lime-colored shirt, thick brown leather belt. eyes dreamy, dark but deep like a lake at night. we stood around in the kitchen talking and i ate peanut butter on toast, my hair still damp from a shower, while they drank wine in mismatched glasses. i was intrigued by her tattoos–a zinnia blooming inside one forearm, “mujeres” in gothic script on the other. “who’s trying to quit smoking?” she asked, gesturing to the nicorette packets and pink post-its taped to light switches, door frames, the coat rack. some have affirmations–you can do it!--some appeal to vanity–better skin, better teeth!--and others are warnings–remember grandpa, remember jim and mary-ellen. i raised my hand. “there were so many more–i’m done, but taking them down slowly.” she is exactly one day older than me, going to new york the day we’ll get back. “tell me where the good bookstores are,” i said. “tell me about harlem, where to go. how do you feel about 35?” she shrugged. “every year is just another number to me.” “my mother was 35 when she had me. maybe that’s why it feels so big.” numbers are one way i compare my life to hers. it was the same when i turned 22, the age she first was married, and 24, when she got divorced. she had long, shining blonde hair, was working at a psychiatric hospital. she walked into the house and he said, i don’t love you anymore. she asked if i wanted to have children. i laughed. “no. no, no.” “me neither. i can’t imagine being pregnant.” she laid her palms on her stomach, as if to protect it. “my body–the idea horrifies me.” she said she could never part with a book. i expressed regret over all the books i’ve discarded over the years, constantly downsizing. she slow movies that meander and linger over the mundane, but can never remember their names. i nodded, sympathizing. she lives across the river surrounded by ancient trees and victorian houses, and i live in a concrete jungle, bodegas and bakeries and potholes everywhere you look. “i miss the trees,” i admitted. “i miss new york… sometimes,” she said. she doesn’t have many friends here–they’re scattered everywhere. i have the same problem, so many people i love, so far away. i didn’t tell her i’m on the lookout. burrowing, solitary, like a mole. people think moles are blind but this isn’t true. they’re colorblind and the world is dim, but they know light. they rely on vibrations and scents–it’s a different kind of sight. 220220 what's it to you? who go blather from