I can read my future in crows I hold my breath just before I'm not afraid of anything rational
I can take a spike I don't believe much of what I hear I compulsively write everything down
and am absorbed by the city although isolated somewhat like a cold precise moon
The first crow is the crow of chance. It floats in over the fence and out again without stopping.
What will I walk into? It is better not to stop.
The second crow stands for love. It flies erratic. It moves in subversive ways boldly on the porch.
Has at the window. Stalls for time. Won't come in but won't leave. What it knows is why the leaves pile in weak places and shade.
My fortune also comes from nowhere, stabbing at the earth.
The third crow is the crow of determination. It has no doubt. Squatting in the birch it spurs the old nag.
I let my breath out when I'm done I bring myself to this only one moment one flight.
I can stand a night of rain. I don't mind silence. There is nothing on television that I know of.
The fourth crow is the crow of vision. It lights on fire,
repeatedly punching a hole in the fabric worn by rain.
The deeper you wound it
the more it heals
with bountiful medicine.
Whether by fire or by desperate
pricking with a stick,
no tool equals the gross abundance
of ooze; the plasma, fluid, or goo.
Unless you sever
aliments & structures,
separate the fore from the aft,
it will generate enough of its humble
self, dangle on a string,
mock your technology
and bear any punishment.
© Crawdad Nelson