Open eyes, brown.
Perfectly circular.
This world flows in,
breathes out round mouths of caves.
Eyes, everything:
a tree gave them place. Lone
scrub oak older
than Father Serra's robe.
Crippled branches:
a bent vantage above
tawny hills. Folds:
a reclining body's
ample flesh. Flash
of white. A harsh, sharp flap.
Stark owlsong. Blue-
tinged notes. Eerie woodwind.
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