Читать книгу Out of the Ordinary - Kenneth Steven - Страница 9

Only once have I stood beneath a tree

holding my breath to hear an owl.

Its voice was ragged; tattered at the edges –

a call that carried wide across the woods

in the still blue warmth that August dusk.

And everywhere along the valley’s edge

came callings of other owls until I thought

they talked to one another, voices

almost like strange lamps strung out

into the night over a darkened sea.

I held my breath and heard their woven calls

as the moon rose whole and huge above the hills.