Crossing the center of town just before dawn the shops and storefronts are empty and silent. Between home and work, night and day, dream and waking crow feathers pass between the moon and I: silhouette and satellite in a Parish colored sky. The lid is drooping on the lens of a Horus eye; the summer is early and seasons pass by. Black bird, pack bird, silent as a shadow or screaming as you fly, I have watched you pecking fries in parking lots. I hear you telling lies.

The beast that coils beneath the grain, her fur blows like lashes. Now that they have cut the grass, they turn the fields to ashes. Green world, gold curls, brown swirls garnished with black sashes. Outside the town the hills do not change, but feeding time it passes.

Fish flow with the water. Birds fly in the air. Worms follow the earth, and cinders follow the flicker of flame. The streets do not seem to follow the swelling hills; the buildings do not cup the wind with the same ease or pleasing caress of raven wings off of inert piles. Tick like, the concrete hangs in the folds of the world.

On my way to drop the garbage into compactors, I pass the crows on the rims of blue metal dumpsters. They make me happy to work in solid waste. I am helping to feed the wildlife as we feed upon the world.


About johnsmithiiimxiii

John Smith, IIMXIII is the avatar of an award winning poet, artist, etc. who still lives in the Palouse country of the Pacific NW. He has not received much notice with his prose . . . but as his avatar, I hope that he keeps plugging along.

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