The Howling Owl
Published in

The Howling Owl


the second surge.


photo by author.

the storm has lifted, morning skies have cleared;
below, the humid, misty street lies still;
the doom-barrage of thunderclaps that filled
our room at midnight, seizing me with fear,
has long abated; all that i now hear
are tires carving miniature rills
when sluicing through low flood-pools, and the trill
of sodden songbirds’ damp, undaunted cheer.

an hour from now, you wouldn’t know it poured,
so quickly will the sun evaporate
and parch the puddled moisture from the road -

unless you watch the trees, who’ll send a hoard
of liquid to their leaves, rejuvenate
the tender twig-tip tissues - which explode.



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