Watching the Crows Fly on the first Day of December
You think I’d get used to this—
the sun’s leaving—earlier each day
not giving me a second thought.
All my thoughts
turn back on themselves
like this world does, turning its back
to the light.
Is that why they are careening
through what’s left of it?
The soft edge of the world
falls like light at the tip
of their wings.
Darkness is all any of us have
to look forward to.
Their bodies fill the sky, write
their hunger, fly their desire.
I can only hope
mine is as beautiful, mine
has the strength to burn down
leave you wanting
to be held
like truth, spill
Editor’s Note: Sometimes the imagery in a poem holds such energy that the reader lives the poem instead of reading it.