kicked open the door.
The wind pushed her from the side, from behind as it coiled over the round hill crest. The pin oak thrashed alone.
Rose stepped inside; here it was more dim than the lessening without where last light fled and left a flag of charcoal cloud in the livid low west.
A sudden movement near the mantel.
Rose spun to face it, the gray stone mantel and, she surmised, the poet tall, supercilious, oblivious, free; bearded, grayed, arrogant, with eyes of boredom and disdain.
A shadow movement, and Rose fired.
The owl crashed about the loft, the bullet smashed into the mantel. It ricocheted back as feathers drifted down and Rose fell back to lie upon the dusted floor with a small hole in her forehead.
The owl watched the blood flow and waited for the night.