Sitting on the patio with a flashlight, I watch my rabbit nibble his alfalfa. He reminds me of a time when I had a four-stall barn filled with horses; in late evenings I would prop my elbows on the stall doors and watch them munch their hay.
From the thicket across the road, I hear a faint cry. My first thought is someone walking by making a spooky noise, so I sweep the flashlight beam left then right, but see no one.
waning gibbous moon
at the end of the road
an owl calls
In all my years of living here, this is the first time I have heard this unsettling, eerie sound. Some Native Americans believe the owl is a harbinger of death, and I now understand why.
before full night
the flutter of wings
outside my window