The crows are pinpointed poets,
an exposing weave across the “lesser” London’s sky
of oranges and roses. Eastern hemlock trees reach
with clean brittle hands, stir wisps of clouds.
Chilled to bone, we crawled through brambles
for rubies, and there was warmth
blooming in sentient shadows
despite cluttered green elm leaves
blocking the rising sun like stained glass. Our veins
contain a longing in their branches.
Crows find shiny bits and trinkets and me. Played
peekaboo from a lamppost
when I cried and I decided I’d follow them
anywhere, these winged saviours slandered
as dark omens. Raced them over the bridge, to the woods
at the edge of the city. A plump crow with a limp
brought me a tiny, wild strawberry. I tied a string around it
and wore it as a ring, felt rich, felt worthy. Planted a kiss
on his crooked beak. Didn’t yet know
how to recognize that these things were incandescent
gifts; the real jewels rival sunsets, talon-dropped
and heart-swapped.
A nightsilk invitation: climb into the nest
atop the tallest evergreen in Kains Woods. A season
of harshness, of collapsed homes. We huddle
up and sleep until the fest of fireflies:
green embers through arbour archways. We are
clinging ivy and loyal wings, the flickering
reason for a midnight
less darksome, more keen.
