literature

Prey

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Literature Text

A rustle there,
something small,
but larger than the wind.
And as if to confirm this,
an eruption of feathers
glows in the light of the moon.
The mouse is caught,
midst fallen leaves,
midst a fall breeze.

But if there ever were a night...

The owl is gone from sight now.
My fire burns low,
the embers swoon
with each cool exhalation.
And I, too,
move ever so carefully,
knowing the owl
watches me too.
.
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