Distilled Night

Crow Talk

Distilled night. Gel of black. Dark coelescence.
Not born. Hardly hatched. Formed of no light.
Squeezed out of darkness like dripping humidity.
Who has seen a crow’s nest? A fledging? A corpse?
Crows, un-timed remnants of primordial reptiles.

Reptiles, birds, cousins close, too close once, then.
Cousins, kissing cousins, feeding and feasting
On the same dead flesh, life leftovers, remains,
Relishing sweetmeat, sweetbread, eyeballs,
Loving liver, and the rest, till only white is left.

Talking, gawking, calling, chiding, re-calling.
Language of the skies, listen for the phrase.
Listen carefully for “R” — “alveolar approximant,”
Hard to say, never just “caw,” but always “recall.”

Some memories linger, last. The memory of my father telling me that crows (and other birds) were descended from dinosaurs has lasted some 60 years. I hate crows, really really hate crows. Oh, JD, have you opened a spigot?

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