No moon, but the air hums clear,a tuning fork. Pines hush green strings,oaks vibrate into frozen roots.My head spirals, a bush sighs,paws pad through gentle snow.I note fox, weasel, lynx.I map prey they’ve missed,a squeak, a scuttle, susurrusin buried leaves. I flex talons,I rise from the hollow, hungeringfor a heartbeat in shadow. Continue reading Song of the Winged Witch of the Forest by Mary Birnbaum