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Innovation­game

A Summer night


I hear the quiet stillness of the night -
a distant owl that cries an eerie screech -
the silent arc, a man made star in flight -
the unseen feet that rustle ’neath the beech -
the muted squeak of bats that swoop above -
competing with the sleeping breath of love
and rue my ears.
I feel the cold still dampness of the morn
and icy fingers of the approaching dawn -
the first grey light that ushers in the day -
wet dew upon the freshly slaughtered hay:
the crunch of gravel ’neath my shuffling feet -
the spurning look of fowl that cannot speak -
and hide my tears.