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October 2013, vol 9, no 3

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Renée Owen


White Wings

For nights on end, I wait for the phone to ring. For that shrill two a.m. sound piercing the dark, an ambulance racing from calamity, plastic tubes poking her soft, secret places. Fluorescent nightmares stealing sleep, yet hope shines from her wide eyes. And my days creep along. Wind rustles the tips of trees, sunlight falls on fragile wings, a white butterfly, flitting like god amongst the wildflowers.

each step
up the single-track trail
closer to you




crane