Tuesday, November 15, 2022

TO A FRIEND WHO CALLED ME UNKIND FOR TREPIDATION REGARDING THE CROWS

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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