Born on the wind, swift as an arrow drawn from a quiver, she is beckoned by the sounds of the night.

Hearing the distant beat of the drum and the call of ancient ancestors to the smoke of the forgotten teepee, she takes her flight.



Nose to the air and caution to the wind, feet running as a thousand mighty rushing rivers, she gallops with the grace of an Indian pony and the tenacity of a jungle cat.

The woodland floor beckons her at break of day,

And the cool grass where rabbits once played serves her weary head as a mat.



As day slips away, she is once again lured by the night’s magic allure.
She belongs to her ancestor, the wolf, and her paws, ears and nose are sure.



She sniffs the wind for signs of direction,
And with ears pointed to the sky, she runs with lightening speed.


In the distance looms the village of her fathers, where her people
made pottery, arrowheads and things made with beads.




Head down and ears back, she enters with caution as she has been away for many moons.
The children race to her, leaving their blankets and looms.


She is hugged and stroked as a long lost friend.
And this is where Little Owl will stay until the end.





© By Phyllis Ann (Starbird55@msn.com)

 


 



Watch these pages for more poems by Phyllis Ann.
In the meantime, click the links below for
poems and stories by our other authors.


Lefty Loosey, Righty Tighty

Favors

My September Prayer

Eddie And The Baby Bunny

Apples (9 Authors)

September Morn (10 Authors)

Roses

My September Prayer




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I make them and offer them to our visitors and authors.
Click the button to access the index.


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graphicsbymarilyn@yahoo.com