12 Quotes by Cynan Jones

As he looked out in the pitch dark beyond, a barn owl came into the floodlight, glid silently between the barns and was gone, seeming to leave some ghost of itself, some measureless whiteness in the air.

And in this quiet night he feels briefly, as if something unseen touches his face, the ancientness of this thing he does, that he could be a man of any age.

A singular moth flutters in through the wind baffles to the naked bulb above the kettle, cuspid, a drifting piece of loose ash on the white filament, paper burnt up, caught in the rising current from some fire unseen, unfelt.