Bubo
- Year
- 2026
- Materials
- Hand-painted magnolia leaf, found book page, mixed media, shadow box
- Status
- Collected
- Dimensions
- Cataloging in progress
The story
Bubo begins with an overlooked leaf and a page already carrying another story. The painted leaf is placed over the printed page without erasing what came before. Old text, new mark, found object and handwork are allowed to coexist.
The title is compact and direct, but the work asks for a slower look. What appears to be a single leaf becomes both specimen and character.
Lyrics
The Quietest Owl
Just a kitchen table,
just an after-noon —
you brought the gift of company
to fill a quiet room.
But the light was on the leaf,
and the leaf had turned to wing,
and you stopped the way you stop
for a small and certain thing.
You collect the owls —
the watchers and the wise,
who look upon the world
with sharp, discerning eyes.
But this one came quiet.
This one came home.
It had no need to fly,
it waited in the margins
till the right one walked by.
There’s a page beneath the leaf
in a language gone to sleep,
where a wiser owl than most
had too many words to keep.
He spread them long and wide —
for anyone to hold.
A piece of earth that learned to fly,
brushed in silver over gold.
The edges. The leftovers.
The torn and set-aside.
Somebody has to keep them
before they wither out of sight.
You saved one.
You collect the owls —
the proud and the prized,
but this one stayed still
and looked back in your eyes.
It chose to never-fly,
with no need for goodbye.
It only stayed table-still,
it waited in the margins
for a cousin to walk by.
So here’s your quietest owl, Kris....
You brought each other home.
The record
