Nighttime at an Old Farmhouse – Amy Johnson

It is dark and
the century-old house,
bony frame

creaking with age,
becomes dim. Its
entrance guarded

only by stoic, bristling pines.
An owl shrieks
my name through

the wind-shaken trees:
ami! ami!
I step outside to the

wind; it reddens my
skin. I hear
a distant drumbeat

of pursuing wings,
then nothing.
The rabbit screams,

and the owl flies
back to his perch,
I close my eyes.


Amy is a lover of lilacs, old books, and authentic community. Her work has appeared in the Southwest Metro and Plymouth magazines, and the St. Paul Voice newspaper. She runs a blog called The Writer’s Refuge

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