The Wait

Swelling night air surrounds
me and the oldest tree,
Deep within the dark
greenwoods,
eerie heavy pressure builds,
Watching the White Owl watch,

Ambivalently waiting
on a lofty perch,
in the gray glow of a
reflective half moon.
Wise doesn't really matter
up there.

No contemplation only instinct,
The White Owl blinks
in slow motion,
one time
Gathering visions invisible
to me.

Down here,
thick green-leafy fragrance,
Choking on
a forest smog that
permeates then seals,
my skin with filmy
plant exhales,
The accepting sighs of a
vegetative state.

My heart beats faster with each
silent moment passing.

Crawling hopping creatures
to fearful to move or sing,
anticipating,
the sudden flutter of
unfolding wings, sweeping
white elegant's prelude
to carnage,

And I feel it too.
The crushing weight
of time
expanding inside my
skull and my chest while
waiting
for the White Owl to fly.

rlm 8/17 /02