2164: Hunters

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Wings set-to [wider than its
length] – that flit ghost dips
across my uneven path as I
trek westerly – my compass

set by familiarities in these
meadows – a silent rising of
a stirred hunter – its unlade
beak suggests a quick feed –

or a lost prey circumvented
by my constant clumsiness –
I upset any natural balance –
I am told – although not by a

silent barn owl – When I saw
it last I was not as ravenous
as I feel now [clipped as I am
as if a long-famished raptor]

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