• John Grey

Owl on the Wire

The wing, caught in a wire fence, dangles from a blood-stained shoulder. Its beak is hooked on a barb. Neck bones jag. Feathers flutter like the lingering pulse of a dying bird.

Already, the sky, the treetops, mourn the last raptor hereabouts. To the field-mice, its absence is a boon. When a child, raised on the troubling hoots of midnight, may feel well rid of the woodland ghost.

No more stalking, no more far-seeing, no more silent plunge of swooping talons, no more flight from one dream to the next.

God, at His most ruthless, is trapped by man at his. Hours pass without mercy. Savage life is now metallic to the core.

Once, with darkness, the owl would have risen. Now, even as the sun dips down, it is only ever dawn.




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