happening

in my pocket
a bulge
of beans
I stand barefoot
on warm earth

just out of reach
a small owl
circles me
his face, his feathers
the sound of wings

the owl
on a dead branch
for a moment
has a star
for an eye

again he circles
in gathering darkness
before leaving
his broken whistle
our beating hearts

. . . . .

January 25, dusk in the vegetable patch

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s