Tawny Owl

It is April and the countryside spins on the cusp of summer. The sky is full of watercolour strokes, it stretches sideways into dusk.

We both know it is the best time for such encounters.

The ghost-light savage, glows under-wing, hunting perch to fence to tree, punctuating the sentence of night.

The moon blinks its response, she swallows it whole and takes flight.