A dead owl on the side of the road.
Owls are omens, wisdom, the ability to see the hidden
And with no turnaround for the next 25 highway miles
He went 50 miles out of his way
To collect feathers, talons
And when he placed the limp, feathered saint
In the bed of his truck
It's mate followed, watching from above
As he shot through the darkness, down the same highway as before
Because there's only one road, really.
And then this morning, there's a feather from that owl
Sitting on the counter of my new apartment
And he says it's for me.