The Curdling Moon
M
Mark Heathcote
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As a bird sang softly, I leaned out;
On leaning out on the ledge,
I heard a commotion fraught.
Dark, it ominously held danger.
It's then I heard her murderer.
As the curdling moon turned blood-red
An owl began to hoot.
It was then I felt a compulsion.
'Not to give a hoot.'
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