There are some like me — who write about barn owls flying on cold wintry nights. Whence, they take flight on fluttering wings — whirling the sounds — flying over fields covered in layers of mist — leaving slipstreams in their wake — ghostly figures — that emerge out of dreams.
Some people write about green grass and sunlit brooks — memories of days of youth. Old men and women — the subjects of their fascination —…
