Shadow
Branches stirring on the quick wind,
desolate sound of uttered words,
half of us turn away faces,
reminded of horror traversed alone;
streams hitting rocks, falling away from sound.
The owl eyes slowly,
remote, but under its feet
twigs splutter in the fire;
tinily, tinily know
us darkly in branches unlit
reminding how foreign our tracks
to the grass who silently unbends,
the world-shell
anticipation dead.
The shadow of the branch falls where we stood.