Detail from Audubon Plate 121 Snowy Owl                                        by Mary Oliver    Coming down out of the freezing sky  with its depths of light,  like an angel, or a Buddha with wings,  it was beautiful, and accurate,  striking the snow and whatever was there  with a force that left the imprint  of the tips of its wings — five feet apart —  and the grabbing thrust of its feet,  and the indentation of what had been running  through the white valleys of the snow —  and then it rose, gracefully,  and flew back to the frozen marshes  to lurk there, like a little lighthouse,  in the blue shadows —  so I thought:  maybe death isn't darkness, after all,  but so much light wrapping itself around us —   as soft as feathers —  that we are instantly weary of looking, and looking,  and shut our eyes, not without amazement,  and let ourselves be carried,  as through the translucence of mica,  to the river that is without the least dapple or shadow,  that is nothing but light —...
 
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