Owl Time in Albion

. . . smoking a Camel in the yard after

the bars close, watching the ember,

listening to owls.

There is a cabalistical joke in there

somewhere; occultisms are like that.

 

Aldebaran has been up an hour.

Sirius is in the West.

Lawn’s growing fast now;

the picket fence doesn’t seem so hard.

When people dream there isn’t territory.

 

At first it’s only one,

as quiet thickens

different trees answer.

Horned one in the poplar, Taurus behind,

Screech from the willows, Saw Whet from pines.

If you listen long enough

birds map out the trees.

There’s a chart above the fence-line.

 

first published in Fugue, Spring, 1992.

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About johnsmithiiimxiii

John Smith, IIMXIII is the avatar of an award winning poet, artist, etc. who still lives in the Palouse country of the Pacific NW. He has not received much notice with his prose . . . but as his avatar, I hope that he keeps plugging along.

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