Scenic Bypass, Blue Ridge Mountains


In a cage: a white owl towering six feet,
head the size of a beach ball. 
When I remark, So that’s a Snowy Owl.
Wow, it does look wise! my friend
responds,  It’s female; males are even larger.

I didn’t remember the dream until now— 
hearing Mary Oliver and her busy owl on CD.

For a moment the current scene becomes
as surreal as that dream. Leaving
the “Alpine” village of Helen, Georgia
—its Festhalle, its gingerbread buildings— 
my little car copes with mountain hairpins, 
two Welsh Terriers in the back seat
(one asleep, the other panting).
Winter trees reveal a drop off
inches from the road’s thin shoulder. 

Some teachings call this universe an illusion:
We all share a dream, a nightmare really, 
where we’re separate beings.
And when you think about it
if a mind can make up a giant owl—bizarre
but believable—then can’t that mind
make up everything else:

A hunk of metal rolling on wheels, 
a “me” driving with furry creatures,
something we call “Tommy” performed
by “The Who” in “1969”
vibrating the space via an orbiting dish.
Then, an old poet’s voice meditating
on nature and spirit, the oneness of all things.