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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required above the mist of kohl tombstones . . . moon hides its face Wind screams through the graveyard, and leaves on the ground are scattered around old tombstones where a modern Cherokee man lies on top of the grave of his dead wife, wailing with a passion that matches the aching tone of the wild unbridled breeze. Months have passed, and nobody could trace the secret of her demise. Fog envelops the cold cemetery. It’s as if the night has been frightened white, and the trees tremble in late autumn’s frigid air. Above the grieving silhouette, a great horned owl peers down with deep, bright, yellow eyes from its perch on the gnarled limb of an ancient oak. The man, unaware of the owl’s stare, continues his wailing, pounding the grass above his beloved’s final resting place. Suddenly, the great horned owl hoots. He looks up to see what seems to be a glare emanating maliciousness from the owl’s nocturnal iris. Acquainted with the superstitions of his people, the Cherokee cannot break his gaze from that of the owl. It cannot be, it cannot be, the man cries. He is captured by an unshakable feeling - the presence of a spiteful and unforgiving spirit - that has been with him for many eclipsed moons. This time, however, it is glaring down at him with utter loathing. The owl hoots again. Dread pierces his remorseful yet culpable heart. Seized with angst, he claws at the grass beneath him. His fingernails cake with dirt. He must see the face of his deceased wife. A tightness squeezes his chest as his heart gives out~ the owl hoots its third and final requiem. the abandoned perch as the fog lifts - an owl flies skyward
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