The Barn Owl

Motionless but for a revolving head, waiting 

palely, a faint outline in the brooding darkness suddenly rends the air with a psycho scream, 

penetrating, threatening.  

  A ghostly flight as it sweeps the ground

waiting silently, a sentinel of the dying light,

seeking the future through scampering feet,

blood for a scavenger’s brood. 

White against the starlit sky she prowls,

listening and arguing her rights to voles and creatures scuttling through shifting grass,

leaving her organic waste. 

Perched in the rafters of the blacknight barn,

searching eyes for a mouse,  farm fresh food,

feeling the affinity with hard pressed farmers

she bides, a spirit of grace. 

Harmony of flight and a soul of lost moments,

she lifts her wings in prayer to a quiet God 

and eyes shut, roosts in the crumbling tower of

a once watching church.

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margins are a great place sometimes because it is where change happens fastest but it is also a horrible place when we are stuck in them and grace is the moment when we can see that someone cares.

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