The Owl

Outside the window,
the orange grove blossoms its scent

through the warm evening air and
an owl sits on the wooden post, watching

over dad’s car, lights off,
bumping over dirt road potholes

The engine revs as he rounds the corner,
headlights now lurching, slicing

through the pepper tree
shadow branches. I cry for mom

to wind the box again and prove
that it still works, though I fear the spring is

weakening, breaking. Her eyes can’t focus
on the moonlit yard. Do you hear it, I ask,

as the music box winds down one last time.