Across the killed field, a crow cried.Into morning, this cryingruptured against the blood-orange sky.
And then was gone. And then there was,for a moment, just the earth. And the wind,with a gospel-like shrill, washed my window.
What did the crow know of my past?
I have listened to the whine many timeswhile waiting at my window for the nightto shed its starless mess. Starless because
of the city lights, their barking. I’ve been staring ata tree losing itself to the season. The high branches,looking almost frightened, were once ragged
with crows, and now the branches complainedwhenever freezing rain flanked the city. A darknessleft untouched. The crow knew something
about my past, passed that something from tree to tree,moved like a single lightless stream. The tree as lightlessas the hollow mouth of the moon. But that can’t be right.
The tree is lightless, yes, but the moon swelledwith light. Even in winter, when all was dead,the moon paraded its brightest self
against the sky’s obscenity. There’s an argumentthat the dead, like the moon, are brilliant.The tree kept its name, though dead.
It was night. The city still mooredand the moon opened its pretty mouth.I lowered my eyes until closed.
The crow crowed.
If I had known I’d wake to this wilderness again,carried in me a measly bone to suppress properly,the bird wouldn’t have rendered me so—
“Look, I can take however long I need to heal.”