Out walking past a seasoned rabbit run
exhaling downcast smoke to my grey beard
with footfalls heavy thru the hoary frost
a voyageur of a different kind I scare -
a great horned owl in his late bed and tense
the bloodwarm ears of woodland does.
Godless of unearthly stars this dark day
a broken compass to myself only -
my rifle digs a troubled sleeping hole
to the wonder of a half-split aged
hardwood tree. My gun unloads from other work.
Softly in the comfort of another god I lay.
James Brian Livingstone
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