Snow Angel

His hunger indigestible,
undeterred by the dead of midnight,
the owl steps into an icy sky,
a silhouette with extended wings.
Over snags of tangled vines,
past the temptation of open fields,
above a sea of roofless trees,
on frozen ponds, his shadow skates.
Through frost’s latticework,
wearing a blanket of moonlight,
he wheels with the wind,
a storm that is swelling to burst.
The crime scene’s only clue,
mistaken for a child’s snow angel
there in dawn’s rosy light,
his signature etched into powder.

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