The notch the moon made
carves its path above the hills
spills a silvered river,
coursing the through the veins of night—

I hug my bloody knees,
stinging with the salt of my tears,
flecked with bark, I clutch
the arms of the old oak tree
ask with my owl voice,
who owns this place—

I am the dark child, the one who hides
From company, who creeps
while others sleep in safe warm beds,
the one who loves to dance with shadows,
I spy eyes that glisten red.
My friends
have fur,
my enemies wear shoes.

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