by on Oct.15, 2012, under Syndicated from the Web

Reposted from PUMPKINROT.COM: What’s Brewing | Go to Original Post

All night
in and out the slippery shadows
the owl hunted,
the beads of blood

scarcely dry on the hooked beak before
hunger again seized him
and he fell, snipping
the life from some plush breather,

and floated away
into the crooked branches
of the trees, that all night
when on lapping

the sunken rain, and growing,
bristling life
spreading through all their branches
as one by one

they tossed the white moon upward
on its slow way
to another morning
in which nothing new

would ever happen,
which is the true gift of nature,
which is the reason
we love it.

Forgive me.
For hours I had tried to sleep
and failed;
restless and wild,

I could settle on nothing
and fell, in envy
of the things of darkness
following their sleepy course--

the root and branch, the bloodied beak--
even the screams from the cold leaves
were as red songs that rose and fell
in their accustomed place.
 Mary Oliver  


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