the owl

though she hunts mostly at night,
in the day, she misses nothing,
especially not her prey:
sleep is for those
who are no longer hungry;

beware the thorns,
hiding just behind the rose,
they may not seek,
but they always find me;

is it better to leave,
with a trickle of blood,
or sit in the shade,
covered with the mud?

if by being still,
we forego life's thrill,
are we not just the hunted,
being primed for the kill?

May 3, 2009.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.

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