Feral Evening
       

Not the bats diving
out of the junipers and birches. Not
the sun impaled and bloodied at the field edge.

Just this old woman
kneeling by a dead crow.

In another life this bird was made
of mud. Dense mud, dream mud.
Maybe it rose from the stale bottom
of a deep pond. Was birthed
beneath a yellow moon.

Or perhaps a pine snake
came whipping out of the fireweed
and loosed its skin. So was there no body?

Imagine a crow lifting a snake skin
and flying above the milkweed
and lamb's quarter.
Or a crow and snake
as witchery and necromancy.
A crow raising the dead flesh.

Surely the old woman
dreamed that this was so.

And then: What's this?
She is kneeling before the stain
at the field's verge. The black feathers
in the wind's path.

Look: even in death the wings ripple
and twitch as though alive.

Tweet

Copyright © 2011 Doug Ramspeck All rights reserved
from Possum Nocturne
NorthShore Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission