the owl’s moan song cry lament sob heave pulse breath night morning

midnight. the treeline drapes between a darkened flat shaped wooly beast that suddenly bulges in 3-D. out from under the hazy dark skyline glowing faintly against the leaf filigree and stars above and lightening bugs below. tattooing sexing calling beating living signals. fires going out. living fires going out. midnight.

and a heave from a body sounds thick throttled dense yet wistful in that lightly departing Earth way. an owl sounds out in the time, the hour between. dusk is long gone. the witching hour is not yet. and the stars will first disappear on eastern edge hours after now. what happened? what sense or sonar or smell or sight? what leaf on the top of the branch swayed when that bat whizzed past? was it the door kthudslamping closed, oh ten times as someone seemed to be moving out last night? a strange hour for an ashramite to be so… the car lights and engine thrum pulled in and then the repeated stair steps and swush of the inner door even before outer door cuthudded. but then back out again. and this went on and on. and then the engine beat into life and lights and gravel crunch and gone.

on and on yet with a beginning. morning. so many bird languages hugging around the black to blue. the owl joined and all those one hundred languages are still at it over one hour later! the owl. the night anguish. the day anguish too. who?! i smirked at first hearing it last night. exactly! the provocateur. who indeed. are you? am i? is this? shit. are we?


One Response to “the owl’s moan song cry lament sob heave pulse breath night morning”

  1. robert turnbull Says:


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