What is the sound of Puget in the fall?
It seems to be an owl who doesn’t show
What or when or why or where. Below
His wings no squeak escapes the wood. The call
Of the meek, the gently terrified, the bland
Seed-swallowers, is wishful in the dark:
That they had never occupied the land,
But joined the doves escaping from the ark
To anywhere. None of the toothsome tots
Asks for a story. Tell me nothing more,
They say. We already have lots and lots
To share. Pray with us to the predator.
The owl is looking at the looming shore
And pivots towards a land of limbs and knots.
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