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The beat of wings is felt, not heard,
The barn owl’s on patrol –
A wraith that haunts the tussock fields
To stalk the timid vole.

Do you remember stopping then
To listen for a screech,
To feel a primal moment that
Removes the power of speech?

But less and less this spirit’s seen
For food is hard to find.
The barn owl’s struggling to survive
In sterile fields and minds.

Unless we measure more than cost
We’ll make our children poor:
The beating wings of ghostly owls
Will fade and be no more.

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