Owl

 There's rustling in the bushes,
there's no wind, no warm heartbeat
but something is waiting to take
or be taken from this sunlight.

In my dreams I navigate the black
as the sun circles my kingdom's air
and taunts me with the early crows.

Violent morning please let me be
save me for the dawning of dusk
on the past of the late tomorrows.

I'll take tender winter as my mistress
and chase the light from each day
spitting dust in the eye of mortality.

I twist my neck, arch my spine
and screech through branchless pines
perfecting every deceased feather
to aid me towards my final flight.

I'll live in the only conquerer of death
because even I have seen the shifting
in the shadow of the sythe
that moves how I want to, without wind
without a warm heartbeat.