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Prose Poetry Animal Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About Animal

These Prose Poetry Animal poems are examples of Prose Poetry poems about Animal. These are the best examples of Prose Poetry Animal poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

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Details | Prose Poetry | |



Evening slipped out of the cave
Crossed the rock wall
And buried the city in soft kisses
Sun god‘s dripping soup
Gave her child a sunset glow
She went back to her cave
To sleep, to grow

Night birds on the prowl
Growl of dark panther
Unsteady footfalls of ghosts
Silhouetted trees
Cacophony of fledglings 
Snakes ripe with venoms
Green eyed owl preening feathers
Deep in jungles fairies play
Near a lake moon sneaks in
Embers of childhood
Smoldering in deep.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Man's Best Friend

Abandoned, scared and alone he lay in his bed
Wondering if he will ever have a loving home
On the concrete floor, he lays his head
Without a care for his old bone

It’s loud and the rotten stench of shit and piss fill the air
He lay, wishing and dreaming that he didn’t have to be there
Locked up and taken prisoner he is so sad
He never thought his life could get this bad

What’d he do to deserve such a terrible fate?
Waiting for the day he reaches the end
All he is now is a cute little piece of bait
Never knowing if he will ever mend

From the terrifying experiences had
Now afraid of any large objects or yelling
He is older now and the young ones are the fad
Look in his eyes and see what they’re telling

A lost and most beautiful soul
Awaiting the day he may find love
And get out of this terrible lull
He looks up to the heavens above

All he can see are painfully fluorescent lights
Wishing so badly to see the outside
To get out of here and have play fights
What he really needs is a person, a guide

Someone to love and support him
He waits and waits for his special person
Someone who’d make his life less dim
While the pain and loneliness worsen

Copyright © Aubrey Brown

Details | Prose Poetry | |


It looked as if God had slung clumps of cotton
into space. Chromatic blue dispersed memories 
as clear as the sky. We write words on paper, 
tap computer keys, punch save. The Father 
hits save in RAM, retaining joy. Daredevil pilots 
loop letters in the sky; God sends downy missives 
with his finger. He writes, not in script, 
but in moving scenes, flashed on a giant screen,

easily read during January's two-day road trip:
mountains—silhouetted by the sun's glow—
cradled a thousand-foot waterfall as it gushed  
into the sun, sinking into the horizon. A soccer 
ball rolled across the skies. The Hindenburg 
cast its ghostly trail, to drift on and on. Casper 
dimpled down as if to say, Remember me? 
A polar bear rolled on its back, 
cavorting on an iceberg.

A bearded gentleman tipped his top hat 
to the big-breasted babe in spike-heels. A lobster, 
seahorse, alligator, walleye, and blowfish swam 
through ocean foam. A stegosaurus chased 
an Olympic runner around a cushiony track.
A Scottie, Pluto, and a Bichon Frise— the breed 
once called a bitchin' frizzy—wore doggy grins 
in misty haze. A dolphin rose above sea froth, 
a palm tree rippled its plumy fronds, a swan 
arched its slender neck.

Even the roadrunner made his appearance, 
zipped past as we traced the miles south 
in search of warmth and pleasure. 

Copyright © Cona Adams

Details | Prose Poetry | |

An Affair with Death

I knew I was gone when I went into the sleep..
There was no guilt or pain insight..
I’ve never had an affair of the heart.. of mind, body and soul..
The comfort I felt was beyond words from my mind...
And I was destined to fall under his spell...
The fire I felt on my skin began to rage..
 I became like an animal in a cage..
Every time I drew back, he pushed me forward..
I could feel his arms embrace me like no other,
His strength overpowered me and breathing became a necessity..
I gasped each time we danced the dance..
I could feel life’s breath leaving my body..
As he held me tighter and tighter..
I have never known such ecstasy as I drew each breath as the last..
Don’t know why I gave in so easy, temptation is not one of my virtues..
I’ve always weighed the pro’s and cons..
Who is this man of many tricks that I would succumb to him ?
I am smarter than this I thought in one lucid moment..
Be gone I said.. leave me alone I do not want to follow you..
All you want is my soul... and I am not ready...
When I am I will call you....

PS. This was a recent experience I had in the ICU...

Copyright © kj force

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Nice, nice is the rabbit
Nice, nice is the little rabbit.

Pretty adorable is the rabbit on the picture
Agreeable is the rabbit, there on the little image!

Majestic is that animal, treasure of nature
Simply beautiful, here, is the rabbit!

“My” rabbit is so generous
For sharing a pure moment of happiness:
Acting there as a photo model, full of humanity!

My friend, the rabbit is finally 
Example Of the joy OF LIVING…
Let’s do like him:
Let’s enjoy life as it comes…SIMPLY§§

©RITA SOLIS RADIUS. ON JULY, 16th 2015. Poem “The Happy Rabbit”.

Copyright © Rita Solis Radius

Details | Prose Poetry | |

White Bunny

My 29th birthday 
it was set up to be a miserable experience
without many friends or family
I was left to smile through the half-created festivities
my best friend showed up with a box
and sat it on my lap
and a bunny appeared.
A real life bunny rabbit
She was tiny and white and scared
and I picked her up gently
and whispered, "youre home".
Albino, my friend found her on a country road
2 months old, with no camoflague
And of course she thought of her best friend who cant deny an animal
and whose birthday just happened to be hours away.
That first day, my birthday, I held that bunny close.
She didnt fight, but now I know how much of a shocked baby she was.
I researched and read, watched countless videos.
I bought her a huge cage and started litter training her right away.
Its now 6 months later...
Ive worried over her more than any animal Ive ever loved
I took her to get her fixed and got really scared when I realized the vet knew less than I did.
She lived, and healed, and then she ate 6 buttons off the remote, 2 pieces of saltwater taffy, and 4 inches of hard plastic.
But she comes running for her treats and hops into my bed like a super-bunny
She kisses my hands and arms and knees and I know she loves me back.
The way she drinks up a bunch of water, then licks her lips for minutes and still drips water everywhere
The way when I call for her she looks so suspicious, wondering if its time for medicine or bathing or nail trimming.
Thats my bunny.
She makes giant messes, she eats like a horse, shes always looking nervous, shes always doing binkies or flopping her heavy body down
My pretty pure white bunny was 2 small pounds when I got her, and now she weighs 12, more than all my cats
And all of my cats are afraid of her, she tramples them when they are sleeping. She amuses me.

Copyright © Gina Young

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Caution : NRA Possibility

Walking through the woods early in the day...

Haven’t seen a single soul passing my way...

All set to hunt as, I bought the latest gear....

On this the first hunting day of the year.....

It isn’t too cold but there’s a bit of snow...

So footprints will tell me where to go...

I can track by smell....

And I’ve been told pray tell....

That Man is getting smarter every single year..

Which means a lot... to my friends in here...

But now here’s the twist of this little ditty...

I’ve never lived or been to the city....

But trust me.. cause when I’m done..

And this is all in the end of Fall....

I’ll have a gorgeous blonde six footer ... a hanging on MY wall....
*** Just a thought...NRA = Natural Roaming Animal....
       or Nasty Reindeer Association.......hmmmm

Copyright © kj force

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Paws For Christmas


The tree stood straight,
It looked so nice.
Even had shiny things,
To look like ice.

A star on the top,
Was special to see.
Plus the lights and toys,
Filled our hearts with glee.

A package or two,
Were placed on the floor.
For family and guests,
To see and adore.

Then the puppy came close,
What did he see?
What is that shiny thing on his nose,
From the Christmas tree.

How did the ornament so bright,
Get down on the floor?
I bet this puppy could tell you,
As he ran for the door.

What are these teeth marks,
On the package we see?
A gift from our puppy,
Under the tree.

But we take it in stride,
And hug the old mutt.
For it's his Christmas too,
but "stay out of the nuts".


Copyright © Raymond Morgan

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Salty air breathed from crystalline peaks
I breathe in And catch a glimpse 
of the dancing, bowed bodies.

They perform a graceful ballet;
like arrows shot from an archer’s bow;
they leap, breach and roll.

Their eyes have seen ages of brine and shifting sands.
I wonder if they really are the “Watchers”; 
like the “Dogon” stories portray them.
Did they once have legs instead of fins 
and can we really be their children?

Perhaps that is why they are so quick to help us;
Why a child who can not speak can suddenly come to life?
He won’t be silenced again, 
after all, he swam with the dolphins.  
Could it be the magic of the dance that heals?

Odd, that they are always there when needed
And can transform a stagnating life 
into a miraculous moment of rebirth!

Copyright © M. L. Kiser

Details | Prose Poetry | |


REFRAINS OF WINTER SONATA When fallen brown leaves brush a sepia picturesque and the bubbly breeze blows a heated winter sonata, the giant roses of clouds are teased, they shed icy petals tumbling, drifting like little ballerinas dropping to rest on branches of trees, grasses, houses and down to window ledges clustering in lily-white hues. Frosty mornings and nights lure the need for warmth from brewed coffee, a kiss or just a minute of touch... Absorbing the air, alone, I wander to the cover-walks, I see children tramping and playing on hills of frost, some couples carelessly sliding, they laugh out loud, yet afar, some robins, deer and beggars frown in despair as they are homeless. No fire nor a person to cuddle with. No adequate food to eat nor a flowing water to drink too... Cold. Wet. All white, frozen snow-tears are in their eyes and so I am one afternoon, a year and six months ago. The winter atmosphere can stir love passions within but how can it all be when the only woman, I love. I wanted to marry and ready to give my all: refused me? She, slowly walking away, leaving me crying-- a snow. ________________________________________________________ ~~SPONSOR: Broken Wings CONTEST: Write ME A Winter Poem~~ __Olive Eloisa Guillermo__ 8:16 pm, November 14, 2015

Copyright © Olive Eloisa Guillermo

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Driving Out West

        Where the sky meets the earth and the highway goes on and on, a white satin ribbon snaking across a sea of brown. You can see far into the distance with no trees to obscure your view. No billboards mar the landscape, no skyscrapers rise out of the ground. Rolling hills, tumble-weed, yucca, sagebrush and distant mountains range on forever. Herds of antelope roam freely, wearing coats of butterscotch and whipped cream.
        Artists leave their signatures, huge metal sculptures drawing the eye, many miles in advance. Anticipation grips you as you wait to identify buffalo, roadrunner, jackrabbit, Brahma bull or horse and rider.
        Contemplate a life so different from your own, experience the serenity as you roll along with so little effort, feel the fulfillment, the contentment, the embracing freedom. 

Copyright © Cona Adams

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Copyright © Lydia Brescia

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Our Lack of Tolerance 
The culture difference between Portugal and Norway are sometimes 
baffling, like seeing a tribe of Ciganos waiting for one of their own 
often for the day with their offspring running around and they, the children 
are surprisingly clean. This would not have been tolerated at a hospital
say,  in Norway, the police would come and the social people too taking 
the children away... all for the best but for whom?  Well children have to 
go to school and so on, we measure our  standards with theirs, who think 
we are callous sending our old people to homes. It appears the Portuguese 
believe that benign neglect is a good solution. 

But this western standard of behaviour goes deeper it is the reason we
meddle with tribe wars in the Middle East wanting the people there to be nice 
democrats like us. It is like an inverted Midas touch, everything we touch end 
in bloodshed and humanitarian help programs.  And we continue to supply
 weaponry to both the warring sides.

Copyright © jan oskar hansen

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Thief thy name is human

I met a hand with eyes but no vision
He touched me but only to fill his hunger
And I with a heart floated with anger
I wish I were a human 
But not of this hand
I just asked one day but only within

The muscular hand was no less than a muddle head
In life it was panting for death
And I In death panting for the former
He knew he could free me
But his knowledge is destined ignorance
Alas! His heart pumps only blood, no care.
To my one day

I croaked to his deaf ears for years 
But for one day
Neither a day is left nor a drop of hope 
My heart pounced on request 
And his on the lust to have me
I swam in his desire not in his concern
To my one day

I croak now to the world
Enchained in all this ego
Is there a hero out to rescue me
Oh I know the world is all a dark mirror of life
I know this just in one day 
That my day has come

Copyright © Rakesh Arava

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Prey for Me

I searched for you through the endless expanse of night’s long blackness, 
The shimmering light from a crescent moon offered little help in my quest for your elusive form. The pale light dimly lit inconspicuous objects and cast shadows of their beautiful contours upon the ground to thwart my pursuit at every turn. 

Radiant eyes peered at me from within the cover of darkness, 
And mysterious intonations and melodic resonance echoed into the night air, confusing my sense of direction until I was lost in a maze within your protective purlieu. 

Fighting my frustration and fear that I may never gaze upon your majestic beauty, nor hold your rapturous warm body against my cool skin, or savor the taste of you on my tongue, I gathered what was left of my strength and resolve, and continued my silent pursuit. 

Guided by my heart and uncontrollable emotions and hunger for you, I somehow broke free of the discountenance feints set upon me to mask your true course. The hunger within my heart and the vision of you brazed within my eyes, guided me toward your lingering essence and ultimately to where you now hide, deep within the confines of your sheltering den safely held tight within the cool moist earth. 

As my long sleek form slithers into your place of refuge I strike and sink my teeth deep into your neck and as my coils embrace your supple body, I am overcome with powerful emotions emanating from your very being, and at that moment I knew my hunt was not in vain. To taste your sweet flesh wound be unlike any that has ever been known between predator and prey.

Copyright © Thomas King

Details | Prose Poetry | |

I Am Much Cuter Than

I am much cuter than those squirrels.
I see them in the morning when they
don’t think anyone is watching,
primping and posing and fluffing
those tails, rubbing their teeth on
the maple leaves to shine them,
rehearsing their inane chatter.
I choose a quieter life style,
living in an underground
estate, multiple entrances,
sensible rooms, and a large
storage space.  I must collect
nuts and seeds, while at the
same time, evading the beaks
of the birds, the claws of the cats,
and the mockery of the squirrels.
I tried speaking to one, one day.
As he picked a seed aril from
his teeth, he laughed, and made a snide
remark about my skinny, rudder tail.
The birds, though they never stop
squawking, have little to say.  The old
owl, though given to wisdom, seems
to have a focused interest in me,
as supper.  One old lady says that
I am cute, and tosses me seeds and
acorns.  I do appreciate the handouts,
but chatter my sharp and frightening
teeth at her just in case any of the
squirrels are watching.  I have seen my
reddish brown, skinny tailed, spotted
image in the window of the basement.
I am one handsome chipmunk.
I am much cuter than those squirrels.

John G. Lawless
Contest - Animals Alive

Copyright © John lawless

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Animal Queen Contest

The horn sounds
All the animal
Jump into action
Ready for the first
Queen contest ever in the forest

The moon is bright
Much excitement everywhere
Mountain, hill, rivers, tress, ocean
Are special guest

Every animal awaits
This day to display talents and beauty
While the organizers
Deer, squirrel, zebra, donkey
Set the stage 

The master of ceremony
Mr. Fly welcomes our judges
Elephant, tiger, lion and leopard 
Mosquito the journalist 
Sets his camera and recorder

The forest is getter hotter
Mr. fly introduce our beautiful contestant 
Monkey, Bamboo, fox, rat, Raccoon
As they smile with their tail

Each four legs
Modeling on stage
Excited about their beauty
The most pretty of all
Eloquent in speech
With charming smiles
Is no one else but
Bamboo the queen of animals 

Copyright © Olivia Nimley

Details | Prose Poetry | |

White Wolf

When dark of night comes to call,
I listen for the Gray Wolf’s howl.
He is calling me to come and run,
cavort and explore till night is done.
Just out of sight I begin to morph
into what reality has written on me.
Daytime I must be this shy, winsome
creature who no one pays attention to...
I hate the visage in my mirror.
Gray Wolf sees a sleek coat of white,
yellow eyes and teeth straight and strong.
I can run forever through the forest,
but when daylight comes I ride 
in a wheelchair, bound by iron.

Copyright © Sherry Asbury

Details | Prose Poetry | |



Beside a lonely hamlet a dog is barking, chained to a post in a barren field. It is an evening time. The sky is red, strewn with streaks of blood of the dying day. The dog lets out a howl, born out of despair and futility of his life.

 He hates his owner for enslaving him. He hates the flesh, which he has to devour each day to appease his hunger. He hates killings of other creatures to satisfy his lust for flesh, only just to perpetuate his existence. He hates his futile barking all day along.

A dark wind rose within his bowls and slowly winded up his belly like a python; crushing his entrails, passing through his heart and reaching his throat. He lets out another howl of anguish. The sound reverberated among the hills and other small creatures shared that anguish.

He was beyond hope from human kind. Beyond his bestial nature, he longed for some sort of comfort, for a little warmth .He searched for small kindness or tenderness but alas he could not find any. Tears began to roll down from his muddy eyes across his cheeks. He prayed to divinity for his release, for some light relief in order to give some meaning to his wretched existence.

Crying, exhausted, he fell asleep.

In his sleep he felt that divinity have touched him but he could not comprehend it fully. It was too complex for his canine brain.

Copyright © Durlabh Singh

Details | Prose Poetry | |


	Kitten-play is sweet;
	a precious jewel of a moment renewed 
	by each new discovery.

	A butterfly-chase ending in a bumblebee moment
	of enlightenment and sometimes
	a succeeding “ouch”!
	The butterfly is a more hospitable playmate.

	Graceful leap into a patch of soft delicate wormwood;
	A tree-leap, a prick on the nose from a rosebush;
	it’s about as friendly as the bumblebee!

	A jet-sprint to the patio results in a
	back and forth stretched-roll on the warm concrete.
	The pose that says, “I like this place; can I stay?”

	Perhaps on another adventurous day
	kitten will discover,
	the catnip bush at the far end of the yard.

Copyright © M. L. Kiser

Details | Prose Poetry | |

It Must Be Puppy Love

Love and faithfulness live together - Psalm 85:10

Throughout the ages,
Family pets have served.
Faithful til the end,
Many have observed.

Do they know how to love,
As humans think they do?
Look into their eyes,
The rest is up to you.

Watch those tails a swinging,
There's a story to be told.
This is how a puppy loves,
Worth much more than gold.

They do not need a reason,
As many humans do.
It is their gift from God,
Especially for you.

But if you do not understand,
This passion that is so.
Follow our little tails,
They will show you how to go.

Chicken fresh for breakfast,
Roast beef at dinner time.
Sirloin steak so often,
Am glad that you are mine.

Snacks available all day long,
Special ones when you depart.
Is it any wonder then,
That you control our hearts.

Today you are special,
We thank our Lord above.
Thank you for being my mommy,
We will smother you with love.


Copyright © Raymond Morgan

Details | Prose Poetry | |

My Life's Meaning

My Life’s Meaning
By Curtis Johnson

Where do we fine the purpose of it all?
What does it all really mean?
What does life mean to me?

I have been young, and now, I’m getting older.
I’m thriving to be wiser, before I close my folder.
If we are willing to learn, life is willing to teach.
Life is learning, being taught; life is teaching others.
If we are willing to listen, the sounds of life will reach.
O the whispers of the wind! What melodies the birds sing!

May greed  not be pleasing.                                                                      May there be bread enough, with a little bacon.
May the peace makers and keepers prevail.                                                 May nothing be missing nor broken.
I want to give more than I receive,                                                         before my last words are spoken.

If you are willing to receive, life has much to give.
Quiet snow flacks and rain; departed pains from hurricanes
Take what life gives, make the best of it, laugh, live, and love.

Yes. Sometimes, bad things will happen to good people and all of us.
When trials come with blinding dust, be still and do not rush.

We do not always know what life will bring or share.
We do know that others care, and will help us bare.
We pick our peaks and climb, ascending with the passage of time.
We wait our turn; don’t break in line; and continue on being kind.

There are  peaks and valleys; there are some tricks; but there are far more treats.
Life is sometimes cold and bitter; it is also warm and sweet.
There is a little of the bad, sad, and ugly; but life is really mostly good.
Life can’t be all good, because we don’t always do the things we should.

Ignore the promises of the “quick fix”; it takes time for the wounds to heal.
Don’t seek the “get rich quickies”; such  likes are usually schemes and tricky.
Breathe in; breathe out; it’s worth a shout, no doubt.
So slow it down a notch or two, and get to know the good life.

Take some time off; take a break; get away; take a walk along the beach.
Take a trip, but not on a plane; relax and take it easy on a slow moving train.
Rest, relax, and recreate; don’t answer the phone too quickly; smell the roses.
Live and love the good life; pick a rose, or maybe two; share them with someone you love.
Life has lasting meaning  to me, given by one who said, “Be wise as serpents, and harmless as doves”.

Copyright © curtis johnson

Details | Prose Poetry | |



I call her Movie
Because she moves day and night
A shadow drama on the white wall
Winks for milk
Her world cringes into a saucer
She mews
Says me and you
We make this world for each other


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Squirrel Watching



Squirrel Watching
By Curtis Johnson

Many are we who live and die, having never taken the time to smell the roses
Or to behold the sometimes breathtaking beauty of a cloud in the sky
Nor even to take a drive to the west side of town, and stare at  a sunset

One need not be soft and tender to enjoy the site of a purple rose
Or too busy to stop and gaze at a moving cloud
Nor need you be romantic to enjoy a sunset

One needs to celebrate little creatures of the wild
Before those senior years come creeping upon you

One must dare to decelerate and take note of a squirrel
Or follow the pathway of an ant as he passes your way
Or even find the time to save the life of a yard bug

I am learning what it’s like to observe a few note worthy ways,
And sometimes selfish behaviors of squirrels in my back yard.
Like the time that a squirrel took my pecans from my makeshift
Platform after I put them there to dry.  You might not call them selfish,
But perhaps you would,  if you loved pecans as well as my wife and me

I am not aware of any scientific study on squirrels, but my personal observations have led me to conclude that they feel entitled to any and every nut their little hearts desire,without any regards to ownership.

I am forgiving though about the pecans, because I enjoy watching them
Walk and run atop the fence with very little effort; And I am captured 
As I watch them chase each other from limb to limb, or race up a palm tree
And hide beneath those protruding stickers

O what large eyes they have, being so uniquely set for exquisite vision!
Their movements are so agile and quick, and they appear shaky and a bit              over sensitive to their surrounding.  Perhaps that explains why they seem             to be in a constant state of readiness.
To some extent, I would say that they are also fearless, provided they              are able to keep adequate distance from you.
Were I at work 9 to 5 or some other shift, I would not have learned such              minor truths about squirrels; And had I not been retired, never would I                 have seen  a squirrel outwit a cat who gave in and walked slowly away

Unlike me, you do not have to wait until retirement.  There’s a beautiful              wild kingdom out there my friend.  Let’s enjoy it.


Copyright © curtis johnson

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Wisely Waiting

Wisely Waiting
By Curtis Johnson

I love to tell the story about the time I answered the phone several years ago.
It was a new experience for me when I said, “Hello”, and the caller said, “Please hold”.
My immediate reaction was, “Did she really call me and put me on hold?  Unbelievable!”
My next step was to gladly hang up, because I wasn’t in the market for their product or service.

Like all the racing rats of this fast pace world,
We soon come to realize that there are many and variant wings that flow and blow.
So learning to wait and be wise, we dare not venture recklessly and make haste.

May we dare to be patient and in the “know”.
There’s that certain wind on which our wings must go.

Like an eagle on a high mountain cliff who wants to fly higher and soar without a care.
Like the master of the sky who has known for so long to be keen and much aware.
His mother eagle taught him long ago that his wings alone cannot take him there

We will, like our eagle friend, wisely wait and debate;
We will, through the eagle’s eye gate, hesitate and negotiate.
Yes, that certain wind under girds his wings and takes him away.

Copyright © curtis johnson

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Animal Trails

Turtles of the mind
Rabbits of love
Wolves of the body
Scavengers of the soul
The sea of feelings
Some walk with two legs
Some crawl on all fours
While others sail the blue sky
And we swim in the depths

A tidal wave of thoughts
Blister the mind
A storm of emotions
Flash across the soul
And the seas part
To reveal your passions

The hawk, your eyes may well see
The branches in the path
Travelling to three ends
A cheetah can carry you
Swiftly down a lonely road
Or the owl with its wisdom
May search the inner path a
And the rabbit shall run
For life or death

Copyright © Neal Freeland