Behind the roadman’s hut, north of nowhere
The clouds are running along the power wires
Vibrant and flickering, against the fortifications
I was there, leaning nauseous against the tree trunk
Thinking about the nights in the endless void of Belvedere
Leading directly into the North-Atlantic sky
Where the sea is black underneath
And the warships are made in steel and radio waves
There I saw him, dead as a nail
Face down, beak in the dust
Wings spread open for the last flight
Waiting to be split into atoms, throught the interstellar gaps
And beyond, into the thick brown paste
That is the fabric of Universe
I never found Hawk nor Crow, they were long gone
I found Barn Owl, but he was undone