It is a dove.

She thought it was an owl.

I heard it. It’s an owl.

We have doves in
our trees. Grey blue dress
for every day.

We have owls. At least one,
but it doesn’t show often.

I picked up a rock that
had fallen from a bed
encircling the chokecherry.


A hum joined in chorus.

Citrine, a bit, and some clear.

I reached to her face
holding it to her cheek.

It’s cold.

Ancient Greek names crystal
icy, cold frost.

Glass will warm. Crystal stays chill.

Molten earth, deep inside
fires and flows, cools and
hardens. Hearts, too.


Owl visited. In
spring eventide, it came.

I heard it. It’s an owl.

Vespers to the Holy.




Author’s Note:

NaPoWriMo. Day 11.

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