While walking yesterday evening, I almost heard an owl, its voice coming to me through the dark at regular intervals. It was a strange and beautiful thing, this almost hearing. It was like almost thinking, almost dreaming, almost being. But to the owl, maybe it was not so strange. Maybe he was playing.
December 15, 2020
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Categories: New Poems & Pieces
Tags: Consciousness, Diaries, Journals, Owls, Walking
William Michaelian 