Phil Rice: The Owling


Photo by Beth Hannabass



The Owling



We huddle beneath

a freezing moon, waiting.

Blue-cold,

we drain a bottle of

Absolut

.


Your breath

nudges

past chapping lips.

..


my smile, frozen

...


The owl

does not honor

our request

this night;

satisfied,

we crunch homeward

in sweat-filled wool.

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