Barn Owl

Sometimes close to sleep under the bedroom’s
beveled wall, though the window
I kept open in all weather but a storm

belted the torture-screech of a witch
at the crushing stone; something like steam
ripped through a narrow hole,

and I knew a rabbit was under the owl’s claw.
No fear to it. Past the foot of the bed
the wooded law dealt quick, leaving only a pelt,

without justice or hate. The blanket’s
weight felt good on my shoulders, quiet closed
in thicker, grape-scented; sleep’s wings swept down in the dark.

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This entry was posted in Poetry and tagged , , , , , , , by A. Miller. Bookmark the permalink.

About A. Miller

ALEX MILLER JR. is a staff writer for The Curator and the co-author of A Bow From My Shadow, a collection of poems written in dialogue with Luke Irwin. His essays and poems have appeared in The Conversation, Transpositions, Pif, The Curator, The Denver Syntax, Lake Effect, and ken*again. He is an adjunct professor of Western literature at Gordon College in Wenham, Mass., and high school English and Rhetoric teacher. He lives in Beverly, Mass. You can follow him on Twitter: @miller_jr.

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