January 12th, 2014

caillebotte_man at his window

Lit

The first thing I heard on going outside this morning was the deep, soft hooting of an owl. Dawn was as yet a rose hint that tinted the scattering of clouds. The owl was among the dark pines, saying night's farewell. Moments later a cacophony of woodpeckers shattered stillness as light revealed the trees. The chilly air vibrated to life and forgot the feathered woodwind, lost the nocturne's notes. Overflowing, day drowned peace in motor noise and rushing wheels, door slams and dog barks, raucous crows and a rising breeze. Light everywhere, I returned to the dim house and slept, remembering the owl.


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