Cold air brings
the chills setting in,
how fast these eyes skim,
from pebble to pebble,
across the valley,
awaiting in the grassy plains,
water laps on the banks,
sweeping away debris,
yet the owl sits,
on the tree,
blindly waiting
for the sun to sink.


(This was written a while back, actually few years back. I’m currently going and collating some of my works from other sites so that they are within easy reach for me. I quiet like this piece. I think it’s very quaint.)


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