They swarmed some morning in January.
It’s hard to remember which morning when
every day, the same ice-plastered sun
rises and falls behind formless gray…
Was I afraid? Perhaps
I should have been,
watching that black cloud descend
and shutter like a school of fish…
A few irridescent feathers
grazed like iron against my skin.
One bird perched on my shoulder.
Its talons left tattoos…
Each morning, I listened to the crows
speak in tongues and give me prophecies.
They woke me early to whisper more
until their voices were no longer whispers…
At first, the frozen sun
still pierced their feathers.
Today, they keep their wings
Sometimes, I tell them
“no more.” Their voices like ghosts
chatter and mumble back at me.
No more… nevermore…
So I listen to the crows…
and I’m not afraid. Perhaps
I should be…? But how can I fear
when their sweet voices
sing like swans…