The Blue Mountain Review Issue 1

2 An Owl’s Omen in the Ruins Wind unhinges lashes to swat at what dust drones behind my door, where the finish peels and appears groaning, like time dissolving piecemeal, inching the splits, in mildew all morning.

Green, not new, fouls the door wincing at the onset of dry, while I ward off light, so slammed shut behind the aging gore.

But that thwack is none of heaven’s flak, no divine leavening, whack against my door, deadening.

I fear there dizzies a poor harbinger drunk on travesty and woe before, tormented into frenzies by this devilry’s chore.

An owl at rapid flap, silent but for its frantic slaps that threaten to conjure rogue touches of perilous news, a brood cast in the offing that will not diffuse.

Trapped in ungodly trances it is slave to this chaos, dancing out the dark chances of an omen, should I dare to read?

Half past four, against my window, framing me as I ease from safe shadow to slip a looking space only the size of a pore and prepare to yank it closed should I scare when I see the face’s lure.

Curse this brainless bird, why not knock blank sounds with nothing to reword at my door for an answer to shoo away?

Thwack, whack, back in towing Thwack, smack, tacked to rowing The sea drummed, thrummed a thunder, Thwack, whack, hacked 8 | THE BLUE MOUNTAIN REVIEW