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Late Road Home
Nothing can erase that pale owl
moored on the metal,
the way he turned his bonneted head
to challenge my headlights.
beak, talons, pole star bright.
A blood-red moon in his full crop.
Then, like the sure hauling of sails
for a long outward passage,
he hauled his quiet featheriness
up and into the encircling night.
Wingbeats as slow, as silent,
as this road home,
away from you.
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