Owls
L
Leo Yankevich
0
Altın Yaprak
The valley sinks into the mist;
the yellow ring of the horizon
eclipses the cornea of the sun;
the ridge blooms purple on my wrist,
fading, inimical and black.
The earth exhales into the dusk,
frost forming in the shaded husk
of afterglows. My wine and sack
my only friends, I hear the call
of hovering owls, as stars drift down.
A hawk upon a bough, no town
high or below, I wait for Fall.
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