Owl

The ghost call of the owl by the roadside reminds me of the summer afternoons when grasshoppers whirred in the yellow grass, sun-dried and cracking like parchment. In the long evenings, mosquitoes stung like pins and needles, gnats hung like gauze curtains before my eyes, and peeper frogs and cicadas sang the sun to bed. Maybe the owl, as in the fable, tired of their noise, ate them all.

One last songbird trills,
lamenting lost grasshoppers;
an owl keens a dirge.

***

This Haibun does double duty for a Paint Chip prompt and today’s NaHaiWriMo prompt.

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