The Last One

The tides are in the midst of turning.
Fog is low
and heavy over the hills.
The owl is half done whoooo-hoooing
and the mission that I had is done.
Soon, the earth will rotate again;
currently is experiencing a tight
as the magic that I wrought has brought
it all to a halt. The birds half awaking
and the sun is taking the time
to catch its breath before
continuing on
and cubs are still half dreaming

And yet only half awake I walk,
silence so loud,
no water trickling, no racoussing snores no early washwater being tosssed
no smell from the baker’s chimney
just a frozen cloud of scent and
the feeling that If I wait long enough
I could grow old in this moment, forever.

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