Something has happened in their world.
Angry choir—why and how and who.
Black wings thrash in trees,
then strafe me low, my head
their devil. Sorry—easy—all
I can answer to their churning fury
slashing air with wings and calls. Twenty
crows, now thirty, more as I move
the broken body off the road, crushed
wing, dead eye, soft in a dishtowel,
set it gentle in the weeds, hidden
so drivers won’t see the bleed,
the next week’s rot. All through
the voices call and call, wings
froth air, warning—
the broken body off the road, crushed
wing, dead eye, soft in a dishtowel,
set it gentle in the weeds, hidden
so drivers won’t see the bleed,
the next week’s rot. All through
the voices call and call, wings
froth air, warning—
maybe for the soul
that flies without the body now,
maybe something they can hear—its cry—
or maybe for my hands to leave it,
for us all to leave it, please, God, leave them
alone to speak and speak of all that
torments them, their sun-caught shining
necks and beaks, their undone mothers
and cousins bowing and rising in the pews
of the maple trees shading the corner.
that flies without the body now,
maybe something they can hear—its cry—
or maybe for my hands to leave it,
for us all to leave it, please, God, leave them
alone to speak and speak of all that
torments them, their sun-caught shining
necks and beaks, their undone mothers
and cousins bowing and rising in the pews
of the maple trees shading the corner.
Read on . . .