Night Wings
Darkness gathers in
a raucous cloud of wings
to swell in trees, a seething mass
of movement like a maggot ball
hung high in a canopy until all
subsides into a folded quiet.
Air then becomes the domain
of the silent whose
wings beat in whispers
and are cloaked in stealth.
My mind paints a picture of an owl
swooping low with talons
drawn to hook an unwary
mouse. Raptors are no threat
to me.
I fear those other wings
let loose by man that my eyes
cannot see, but slice the air
on the edge of hearing,
can fly clean through
the center of thought
and decapitate a feeling. These
wings kill or leave wounds
that weep and never heal.
Copyright © Paul Willason | Year Posted 2023
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