Here's Peggy, three years before she died, reading one of my favorite of her poems.
Low Owl Illusion
Early but already broad daylight this morning
a barred owl glided across the path, so close I saw
wing edges split by a broken shaft, a feathery flaw,
and thin claws that trailed like exposed wiring.
Halfway up a poplar she lit by a nubbly opening,
slipped inside a gap healed around a lost limb's raw
socket, and sank instantly into the dark hollow,
all but her tail, like a bracket on the bark, a warning.
At the high end of hearing, voices thin as a wafer
bled from the tree. She squeezed back out, turned
on me her great fixed eyes and stared down: You.
She held still, but the longer I looked, the less I saw her.
I mean, it was only by blinking back the form I yearned
for that she stayed in view at all, whatever she was and who.