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above the mist of
 kohl tombstones . . .
  moon hides its face

Wind screams through the graveyard,
and leaves on the ground are scattered around old tombstones
where a modern Cherokee man
lies on top of the grave of his dead wife, 
wailing with a passion that matches
the aching tone of the wild unbridled breeze.
Months have passed, and
nobody could trace the secret of her demise.

Fog envelops the cold cemetery.
It’s as if the night has been frightened white,
and the trees tremble in late autumn’s frigid air.
Above the grieving silhouette,
a great horned owl peers down
with deep, bright, yellow eyes
from its perch on the gnarled limb
of an ancient oak.

The man, unaware of the owl’s stare,
continues his wailing, pounding the grass
above his beloved’s final resting place.
Suddenly, the great horned owl hoots.
He looks up to see
what seems to be a glare emanating maliciousness
from the owl’s nocturnal iris.
Acquainted with the superstitions of his people,
the Cherokee cannot break his gaze
from that of the owl.

It cannot be, it cannot be, the man cries.
He is captured by an unshakable feeling -
the presence of a spiteful and unforgiving spirit -
that has been with him for many eclipsed moons.
This time, however, it is glaring down at him
with utter loathing. The owl hoots again.
Dread pierces his remorseful
yet culpable heart.
Seized with angst, he claws at the grass beneath him.
His fingernails cake with dirt.
He must see the face of his deceased wife.
A tightness squeezes his chest as his heart gives out~
the owl hoots its third and final requiem.

the abandoned perch
       as the fog lifts -
             an owl flies skyward

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