i was born 

a shadow child 

and 

so 

have grown familiar 

with the selfish sticks 

thrown at

dogs 

and 

me 

until we whimper

away 

from 

village fires

but 

i have 

eyes

and i can 

see

this is 

NOT

what 

it’s supposed

to be…

 there

ARE

families

who 

wait for nestling

voices 

to rise 

on wings of the morning bird

instead of hiding 

them 

in shadows 

forgotten and

unheard …

alone

like owls in lonesome flight

but listen…

the sound of a

 breaking 

cry,

of one 

breaking 

out

of sighing dieing

 choke held smoke,

 the sounds of feathers fluttering

free 

around a throat

and 

the voice of an owl as it arises to cross

away 

from stench filled mires…

and then that owl (Ms Bethany)

sings,

“come fly with me

you tribe of Wings”

and together we gather 

 to laugh and dance 

around 

the pyre of selfish sticks…

and these -the tales our children hear

of owls who conquered inbred

Fear

our stories

the stories of heroes

told

around OUR village fire