Beech leaves still on branches—
Dry, pale and they clatter in the wind—
Coming from where the moon rides the sky.
On dirt road, car tires squeak on snow.
A big black dog barks.
Waves batter a frozen shore.
In moonshine, loose snow travels over night-white fields—
With the brilliance of diamonds in sunshine.
Two birch tree’s limbs break.
An old woman coughs inside the house where a wind chime hangs.
A mouse crawls under the snow.
Never knew of the Owl’s deadly blow.
Note: Fifteen years ago I read about being able to see the imprint of an Owl’s wings in the snow, usually best seen in the month of march where I live. This year is the first year I have seen it.