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Owls glide

back into the trees.

There goes the milkman

with his jingling bottles,

dust pursuing him

down the bumpy road.

Blackbirds in a willow,

robins in the grass. All of it

may be thousands of years ago

or infinite as a moment

painted on a wall, and the wall

itself forgotten.

Ten thousand years, half a million

ghost lights on a hillside

in a water ball of glass,

in the arch of a thumbnail, brow

of a beautiful face

glimpsed in passing.

from Poetry Northwest 11.2 Winter & Spring 2017More by Christopher Howell from the library

Copyright © Christopher Howell
Used with the permission of the author
on behalf of Poetry Northwest.

Published in Christopher Howell Poems

This program is supported in part by a grant from the Idaho Humanities Council, a State-based program of the National Endowment for the Humanities.

Any views, findings, conclusions, or recommendations expressed in this (publication, website, exhibit, etc.) do not necessarily represent those of the Idaho Humanities Council or the National Endowment for the Humanities.