In the owl’s flight
as in the conifers it left:
that silence.
It’s enormous,
the frozen carcass of a cow
eaten by chickadees.
O trees like forks,
the sky too is a dish
best served cold.
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Verse scraped as clean as a January sky. I like this. (And thanks for the mini-vacation between sets of papers!)
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Glad you liked. Thanks for stopping by.