On a rotten wood step
outside my little girl-room
painted with one-winged
dragonflies and ladybugs
I watch,
over teal colored fir trees
and spider webbed powerlines,
a brown owl
sweeping for rabbit.
In this manner, I memorize
the burnished sky, the sallow lake,
whiskered tips of wheat
once high, arced eastward-
the weight of wind
sleeping on a field.
Now, miles away
and years I hear
whip-poor-wills
in the deep throated thicket,
chirping frogs, oil black crickets,
the clovered tread of deer
and consider the owl.
I think you'ld like them,
you talk about similar themes
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