Trickle

An owl,

a trickle,

its call muted

by distance,

and the chopping,

of air,

by the blades

of many fans,

on a morning,

still,

emerging from the shadows,

and filled with the perfume,

of baking earth,

everything,

in 

a state of trickle.

IMG_1327

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s