An owl, darkness

shifting pale

into moonlight, tilts

from her perch,

glides perfectly

to a small thing,

a squeal and silence.

Wind touches a few hanging leaves.

The moon draws back

on its spindly legs.

The owl tears and


swivels her gaze

around the hard, stripped

bones of the trees,

rises through empty cold.

James Owens divides his time between Wabash (Indiana) and Northern Ontario. His chief interests are metaphysical disquiet, suspicion of language and watching small objects moved about by wind, such as scraps of paper, leaves and the surfaces of puddles. His poems, translations and photographs have been published widely, including recent appearances in Poetry Ireland, The Cortland Review and The Chaffey ReviewJames's blog, Ein Klage-Himmel, can be found here: http://circumstanceandmagic.blogspot.ca/

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