gather

 

gather

 

in silence
remembering
these sudden disruptive voices

(my hands are crows)

this morning, something dead in the road. I want to know but there are too many
cars.  I can see only black — black swirling, black diving.   black tearing red.

collecting it all in a stone-filled craw

the murder explodes. black flies, disturbed. a single bird leaps
across my car; his interrupting wing leaves a trail on the dusty hood.

I heave my awkward body to the top of this
swaying tree     my hands glisten with spurious
feathers

he opens his big onyx beak, says no — don’t look.

just      
keep driving

(my hands are crows)

 

 

PAD — visitor

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