Bob Dornberg  © 2007 All Rights Reserved

Owl

smudge of silence
and mahogany, alert
in onyx, vizier
in a skein of boughs,
scrying the weft of the universe,
observant like Orion,
stalking warm umber—

winged prophet
of secretive night-pines,
obsidian thief,
flying like a riddle
that doesn’t even whisper,
swooping in a merge
of bat and falcon,
neck a whirpool of fates—

you Hanged Man
in a noose of flutters,
unable to breathe unless you moan.
darkness and forests ordained you,
long ago, when moonlight
fled the trees like rain.

Chris Crittenden
Copyright © 2007

 

Chris Crittenden has been published widely in journals and anthologies. Some of his most recent acceptances are from Offcourse, Nexus, Ward 6 Review and Istanbul Literary Review. He lives in a small town on the edge of Maine where there are no traffic lights or streetlamps and only a single restaurant, which serves greasy food.

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