(F)owl play
The owls were sated. Full of moles and torn up scraps of suede-skinned voles. Plucked from the ground in the dead of night by the white-winged warrior with the gift of flight. They didn’t hear the approach of death for…
Poetry, bikes, dementia...
Poetry, bikes, dementia...
The owls were sated. Full of moles and torn up scraps of suede-skinned voles. Plucked from the ground in the dead of night by the white-winged warrior with the gift of flight. They didn’t hear the approach of death for…