Poetry and Poetics
IN THE MOABI TREE
Here, the night is all voices, all bones.
No moon, and stars have gone to sleep
in the blue-black leaves.
The branches hold more tightly to the nests.
There is a shriek from the wetlands
across the Nyanga River.
An African barred owl flies off and returns
with a scrub hare in his talons.
Tuffs of fur scatter down like ash.
© by Patricia
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