Non-Erotic PoetrySmall White BonesCold rain filters down
through the trees
wet leaves hang heavy
dripping onto fresh moss
and in a hollow tree
an owl hunches
waiting
for damp dark to hunt
small drenched creatures.
On ghostly wings he glides
disturbing only droplets
A startled squeak
soft scuffle.
He will swallow
rain-soaked fur
small white bones
and little still heart.
The sullied soil
and bent blades
tell the tale in stillness
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