Treasure Island

Patrick Dennis


Here & Now


I feel but cannot hear the downward beat
of the owl's wings which seem to move
like a poem on feathered air.

She draws to herself the half-colours of predawn
and holds still the forest
in a raptured last embrace of dark.

Even the sun in awe of the night
stands timeless and veiled
for the last benediction of flight.

Submitted: Saturday, January 25, 2014
Edited: Saturday, January 25, 2014
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