Tired of sitting in the same spot,

Morpheus hoots for my attention

but I have no time to move him.

He should know in hunting season

injuries flood the Rescue Center.

That’s how he got here.

I slip him a mouse meant for the reptile cage

who tries to scurry away but the owl holds tight,

making a quick end to his struggle.

Morpheus pulls his wing back to extend it

but the bullet that missed his heart severed

the tendon that allows his wing to stretch

and keeps him from flying.

My leg works about as good as his wing.

We are gimps, tottering from place to place,

unfit for the demands of normal society.

But here, among the three-legged squirrel

And blind skunk with his eye shot out

we are who we are, that is to say, ordinary.

We are friends with no disdain for those

imperfections that others spurn, trading

who who-who who-whos and keeping

each other company through the day.

He blinks, eyes dark with deep knowing.

Now that everyone is fed Morpheus, up you go

to the tree by the she-owl the with a mangled talon.