In the owl's generous interval of darkness, where she builds you up and builds you up and then drops you so you love it, into midair at sunrise— so you love it. And she has a way of arresting every offering of nuance there and turning it into some calm refusal of the absolute that can only be traced back to ambiguity and trance, which, if you don't blink, answer one another back and forth for the better part of the best days
