Owls
       

Owls glide off the thin
Wrists of the night,
And using snow for their feathers
Drift down on either side
Of the wind.

I spot them
As I camp along the ridge,
Glistening over the streambeds,
Their eyes small rooms
Lit by stone lamps.

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Copyright © 2018 Robert Hedin All rights reserved
from At the Great Door of Morning
Copper Canyon Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission