by on September 27, 2020 :: 0 comments

Tonight rain is in the trees desperately seeking
Refuge from its own carnage.
In the wood under canvas I listen between sodden
Decibels of wind
Hearing a leaf shuffling on a branch, the crisp
Sharp snap of a twig,
The owl yawning flexing her talons.

A frisson of something more than excitement,
Something less elemental,
More other worldly than the rain itself.
An awakening, an awareness,
A sudden alertness and I am an old dog with hackles
Raised, my bark superficial,
Waiting for the intruder who may never come.

Outside, a fusion of fire and rain, the night limps
Between trees, the campfire flame flickers,
Hisses, an angry serpent staggering through drifts
Of damp ash three inches deep.
I excavate the canvas, burrow deeper into its offering,
A snug, safer occupation of the womb.
The well-nourished, fleshy fetus of arousal.

editors note:

An outdoor experience brought into the wondering womb. – mh clay

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