For days I walked the streets of Fall City,

an unusually grounded little town,

its farm houses egg yolk and pond blue painted,

dormer windows shy and alert,

old porches nodding off,

mowed lawns, red barn hen house,

chickens reciting poetry over their morning egg,

and I passed by two feathers

and didn't pick them up.

 

Today I looked into a wide handed tree

curving its fingers open

where five crows fidgeted

into different poses.

They were constantly interrupting

and complimenting each other.

One flew off. There on the ground

at my feet four crow feathers.

Two long wing pinions and two wide tail feathers.

Blue-blackened spears.

Traveled shadows.

 

I fanned them like onyx knives

on a wood table by the soft light

of three rock candles Heather gave me.

 

At night, they float over me singing

old Beatles' songs tapping lightly on the window,

forgetting their names,

how they got here,

 

where they misplaced their

warm black bodies.

 

TLS