Wednesday, 5 February 2014

1 Poem by Linda Benninghoff

Owl in Flight

There is no provender
where she is in late winter
and coming spring, no mice, rats,
the blue nestlings of crows.
She will not stay and sing
of heaven like the other birds;
today her deep notes
speak to other things,
the fickleness of the wind,
the food thinning,
if there is a hell,
and if it is amongst us,
in the shadows,
the cold,
the hunger.

Instead she flies,
tail outstretched,
fleeing the spring and its newness,
wings never losing their texture and arc.


Bionote

Linda Benninghoff most recently published in Mipoesias, Verse Wisconsin and Agenda.  She has an MA in English with an emphasis on creative writing.  She lives with her dog behind a state park, and this dog has gone through two sets of trainers. benningln@aol.com

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