Floating, falling leaves,
Brush the flying bird’s feathers,
On chilly autumn days.
Fly on, chirping bird,
Until you reach your haven
Beyond the mountains.
Flap your silent wings,
Owl of tall, shrouded pine trees.
Be wary, small bird.
White and cold moonlight,
Shows feathers on the hard ground.
The bird flies no more.
Copyright 2008 by Rebecca Norman
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