What heals these wounds? Like one endless funeral procession. The owls are forever screeching in our trees. Calling out the names. Now lost to the infinite blackness, akin to the night sky. Predicting our losses which loom so large. As if each soul were as nameless as a star, or a million rosary beads. At this hour counting seems futile to the billions who feel lost, here wearing their mourning like owls wear their feathers.