Poem

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When I was young
my grandfather
handed me
his 22
to shoot the owl
perched in the tree

I shot the owl
who held wide fathomless eyes
on me
then fluttering
fell through the leaves

Fifty years later
the tree is still there

And
the owl is still fluttering
down through the air

Authors Bio:
Ex-army medic. Atheist. I'm an amateur writer and poet.