The grass leaps on its long-legged green. The live blades fling in the early light. The crows scour like fat microscopes, beaks focused in. Sun builds a shadow prison. The crows enter, wings unlocked. Ghost moon squirms in, squeezes between pines, one thin slice of white lime. Hunger juices the birds’ chary eyes. Heat snaps from their unhinged crow-cries. The shadows grow disjointed skeletons. The pines point, Which way? Crow-Eater strides blithely past them. The crows hold fast to their feathered edges. (An ancient oiled and polished claw inside the day relaxes.)
Susan Kelly-DeWitt | Bitter Honey Contents | Mudlark No. 46 (2012)