The village now sleeps
amid the shadows
of moonlight lit trees.
A feather from a night owl
flutters and falls,
and not even those
that sleep on the edge,
stir from their dreams.
Something
that can only be described
as being between
a wind and a breeze,
blows a wisp of smoke
from the chimney
of the insomniac.
He shifts in his seat
and thinks to himself...
that it sounded
like the feather
of a night owl falling.
Ian Bowen
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/night-owl-2/
