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2. a.m.

John Barnie

The barn owls hoot across the night

as if there were nothing there, no branch where they perch,

no stream fumbling its way across the valley floor.


Their cries try to measure if there's such a thing as distance

and whether they should launch from wherever they are

on whatever it is that flaps and makes them feel buoyant and

     may one day be called wings.

From Poetry Wales Vol. 29, no.1, July 1993

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