The poem
Last night, an owl in the blue dark tossed an indeterminate number of carefully shaped sounds into the world, in which, a quarter of a mile away, I happened to be standing. I couldn't tell which one it was — the barred or the great-horned ship of the air — it was that distant. But, anyway, aren't there moments that are better than knowing something, and sweeter? Snow was falling, so much like stars filling the dark trees that one could easily imagine its reason for being was nothing more than prettiness. I suppose if this were someone else's story they would have insisted on knowing whatever is knowable — would have hurried over the fields to name it — the owl, I mean. But it's mine, this poem of the night, and I just stood there, listening and holding out my hands to the soft glitter falling through the air. I love this world, but not for its answers. And I wish good luck to the owl, whatever its name — and I wish great welcome to the snow, whatever its severe and comfortless and beautiful meaning.
I feel like a child whose parents are linguists but I have never spoken. I am the youngest of several children. I can speak but I don't want to because everyone else always speaks for me. Why talk when I have an older sister like Mary to explain everything for me. Snowy Night is the way I would describe what it is like to be alive.