they say I am remiss
because if I hear crows conversing
it makes me afraid, unless in the fairytales of Hans Andersen
it seems to me unnatural, a thing of the sorrel wind's sorcery
a warning like a darkening sky
a chill in the wind and no sun's efficacy
on any planet, nearby
and I forever, passer by.
I know I'm not the only one
to want to run whenever I see them gather
hunched in the icy trees
what birds are these
they seem to prophesy
unease, cantankerous, boding no good
making the dark woods ever darker.
I will think lighter thoughts when it is spring
and I mean no harm
when I want to ward them off
like some dire charm
may they rise again in brighter worlds
and myths
I'm sure of it, rich indigo against the gold of heaven
till then I'll ride the crest as an unwelcome guest
and cautionary, when I pass their nests
emblems of a literary sorrow,
a something left unsaid
between the living and the dead.
mary angela douglas 15 november 2022
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