The Homecoming

She does not know what a teacup is for. She knows what hunger is. She knows what cold is. She knows the sound her chicks make when she has been gone too long. The chest has been here longer than she has. Whatever it once held, the careful arrangements of a human life, the fragile things kept for good occasions, means nothing now. Straw is better than silk. Broken porcelain makes no difference to an owlet who has never known anything else. She comes back the same way she always does. Through the gap in the roof. Into the moonlight. Down toward the three small faces that have been waiting in the dark. The mouse in her beak is still warm. This is what matters. This has always been what matters. The moon asks no questions. The night holds its breath. She lands.