Trespasser

by Joan Osterman

(Published in Just So: Redwood Writers 2025 Poetry Anthology)

Dusk descends. I crunch pine needles underfoot.
Brush encroaching on the trail whips across my face.
I sense a presence, crane my neck. High in the canopy
of a black oak, two huge round amber eyes stare—
a Great Horned Owl with feathered tufts.

Mesmerized, I hold her gaze. Abruptly, she spreads
massive wings, flies swiftly toward me, grazes my cheek.
Stunned, I stumble forward, denying my racing pulse—
a person is not prey for a bird! I turn, scurry home,
tripping over gnarled roots in the gloom, banished
by the predator from her domain.

I emerge into the small clearing—the cottage, bright, safe.
Trembling, I slip inside. My husband is engrossed
in the computer. I breathe in the aroma
of freshly baked sourdough, pull it from the oven,
then look out dark windows at shifting depths of shadow.
Coyotes yip and howl in the hills,
while I cut thick slices of warm bread.