Whitman the heretic

Cryptic can seem pretentious.
That owl is hunting every night, but I see it only five times a year.

I’m taken care of by generations of workers – as are you.
I’m the product of chip manufacturers and farmers.
Computers and tractors.
MRIs and hammers.
Sweat and blood.
I am the journeywork of the stars – as are you.

I’m here as one event but as a confluence of events.
I’m the shining tops of the palm trees and the pulsing full moon above them.
Of course I contain multitudes.
But I don’t let them confuse who I am.
I contain no one.
I’m not even who I thought I was.

And I interrupted the owl on the cul-de-sac asphalt.
It screeched as if to protest.
Why is an owl hunting in my story?
Why is the edge of the horizon rising to meet the curve of the moon?
Why all the spinning?
Why all the circles?