[mou] Counting Birds

[Alden McCutchan]

When mou net contributors get caught up in what and how to count in approve=
d
ways, I am reminded of Mary Oliver's lovely poem:

Snowy Night
=A0
Last night, an owl
in the blue dark
tossed
an indeterminate number
=A0
of carefully shaped sounds into
the world, in which,
a quarter of a mile away, I happened
to be standing.
=A0
I couldn=B9t tell
which one it was =AD
the barred or the great-horned
ship of the air =AD
=A0
it was that distant.=A0 But, anyway,
aren=B9t there moments
that are better than knowing something,
and sweeter?=A0 Snow was falling,
=A0
so much like stars
filling the dark trees
that one could easily imagine
its reason for being was nothing more
=A0
than prettiness.=A0 I suppose
if this were someone else=B9s story
they would have insisted on=A0 knowing
whatever is knowable =AD would have hurried
=A0
over the fields
to name it =AD the owl, I mean.
But it=B9s mine, this poem of the night,
and I just stood there, listening and holding out
=A0
my hands to the soft glitter
falling through the air.=A0=A0 I love this world,
but not for its answers.
And I wish good luck to the owl,
=A0
whatever its name =AD
and I wish great welcome to the snow,
whatever its severe and comfortless
and beautiful meaning.
=A0
~ Mary Oliver ~
=A0
=A0