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The Call
Oh, who do you call,
My beautiful one?
Rising in iridescent splendor
In the dark side of light against the creeping dawn.
A mourning cry to follow ere the heat of day,
Dries up the velvet feathered throats of longing.
A reddened eye of patience waits and watches;
Awash in tall grass, brown eyes blink
Then more as fear leaps to flight in graceful bounds.
But a muscular coat of dusty fur and the ruby spray of death
Insures another day of life and an all too ready hunger.
Copyright ©
Jean Bush
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