A Hunting Moon

Loam, moss and plain dirt
I’ll make my bed there tonight
Breathless and bone sick

Afraid of things high
The mountains,
tall cedar
Anything godlike

An earthbound spirt
A hunting moon
Pushing clouds aside

Hiding from her eyes
Comfort amongst thickets
Refuge from knowing

Old tracks, wisps of hair
These days of ghosts and loners
All who could escaped

The owl waits
It’s pray stirs
Most high and Most low

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Filed under Haiku, outlaw poetry, poetry

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