I occupy the only car outside that hoots:
The eagle owl has had enough of bends and braking,
Sliding sideways on roundabouts, my overtaking
And the pissed-off plastic-scratching of the snowy owl
Trying to escape his cat carrier.
I ask if he’s okay and he replies: he’s still alive.
The vet explains the complexities of an owl’s lens
And introduces strange equipment as if it were old friends.
My owls behave impeccably, eyes torched and pressure-tested,
One for cataract surgery, the other, for an eyelid biopsy.
My search for an expert with owl-experience
And a tandem anaesthetist without a fear of feathers
Took me months and miles, diminishing the chance of death.
I waited with my car-skip picnic and my poetry,
My anxiety a prayer as the owls were put under
And I telephoned my way through the hours.
The reunion was a bloodied, hissy affair,
Of eye-stitches and indignation. The incisions will repair.
With care, I’ll administer the liquids and pills
That comprise five different kinds of medication.
