Owl Songs in the Bygone

The barn is hollowed by time, greased by phantom tractor engines. A rusting spade and shotgun, laid-up in the shadowy bygone. A dusty hayloft full of owl songs. The mice are out in the fields, where the corn once waved as it shone, they know that night birds, will dream of blood soon. rodents burrow into the dark for yet more dark. Owl throats fill and billow, as echos deep with the mossy timber. Awake now, the owls fly silent, as keen-eyed ghosts of prey in the overcast. Through all these shortening nights and days, the barn attends to the heartbeat, of an old fallow farm, and a lengthening stretch of dying dreams.