a cold snow covered
November evening
a crisp moon
listens to wolves howl
while a silent deer
startled by itself
bolts across a clearing
an owl hoots
its lonely vigil
to the stars
while round the world
in suburban homes
in huts and hovels
on street corners too
a human din is raised
it is the human cry
I
there is not an ounce of fat in this poem. it is entirely essential and sparse and soul filling and oh so affecting every sense that gives two owl hoots about poetry.
