>> Saturday, October 30, 2010
Quarto, with Crowsby Lita Sorensen
For four days now, crows have woken me
against slate gray snow burgeoning tree limbs
I hear cries
as they pick old grape
seeds from the neighbors’ vines
and circle like ministers above tenements.
Today is bright with winter sun. The rest have kept
the sullenness of November blustering, weathered, tearful days.
Crows know how to bring on the morning
properly with chants and caws
but with laughter of hypocrites
behind earnest magisterial robes
and open eyes of gypsies.
Almost a week has passed in November,
great thief of time endgame of the year.
I have counted four crows ahead
In the tall elm tree
perched like dark sailors
up a ship’s mast preachers on a pulpit
resemblance in their stark cries
exhorting god of sky,
endless blue-white oceans.
This too, will pass (like winter)
an old lover once told me
not yet waking on my pillow,
predicting the phantasm of our love.
I look for crows every day now
in dictionaries of black symbols in webs of branches
quotation marks against sky after endless skies
in days ahead and behind me
in sighs and with sharp intakes of air.
There is something so familiar about the sound of their voices
speaking so plainly before breakfast.
"I am a writer living in Sedona, Arizona"-fr the author's profile page on her writing site