john james audubon, snowy owlwhat sustains it, half-open, the clarity of nightfall, the light let loose in the gardens?all the branches, conquered by the weight of birds, lean toward the darkness.pure, self-absorbed moments still gleam on the fences.receiving night, the groves become hushed fountains.a bird falls, the grass grows dark, edges blur, lime is black, the world is less credible.octavio