This poem by our member Marjory Caine was selected and published in Folio #73 in 2019.
Bones hollow, lighten;
pinions pierce wrinkled skin
and you are startled
by this other you:
this older athene noctua
whose eyes are hooded.
In silence, you open up your wings,
catch air and lift;
glide along pathways, quartering;
track up the side of a ripe field.
You listen for location,
turn your head and observe, discount
what you know to be fur and bones.
You wait for the coming together
of sound and sight.
Aiming for your target
you accept that you might miss,
slip away in the undergrowth.
But also that sometimes
on the flesh of the young.