Sanding the beak he’d just finished chiseling, Juan
pointed to the first-growth stand of trees nearby
in Tocuaro, a flashback of old Mexico, where his great-
grandfather discovered fine-grained carving wood.

“No longer handed down,
Father-to-son, all my family
are now mask makers! Like
this one from my owl dream—
clenching the victimit scooped up
on its rounds. My daughter, our
painter, panics around snakes.
Even after we talked, she colored
it venomous. My wise owl now looks
vicious. But I told her, I woke up
happy. The master hooter of night
isn’t worried by any slithering below.
Beaks have as much bite as fangs.
What swoops in from the unknown
can dispatch what lurks in the dark.”