For The Ghost Dancers

An owl at rest.

Among its feathers,
the silence of pre-Conquest
America.

In its flight,
strategic retreat;
in its call,
a charge — 

remember,
the coyotes
in the Worcester hills
once were only found across
the Mississippi,

and now
they are
everywhere.

 

About Tony Brown

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A poet with a history in slam, lots of publications; my personal poetry and a little bit of daily life and opinions. Read the page called "About..." for the details. View all posts by Tony Brown

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