The Dung Pile

The varied voices of crows rose and fell. As I lay in the grass, dark-eyed
        juncos flew down beside me,

flittering and twittering, and gleaned the mustard seed fallen onto my body.
        Their black beads and death hoods.

Their white coat tails. I whispered to them: Surely it is you who make the
        honey of which the Berber speak,

honey which they secret from your nest in the dreamy hours of the haze,
        lining their throats each morning

as if with a paste of fire ant stings,

or do you make the mists which tangle into clouds through the mountains

to the south of ranches? They continued to eat from me. One picked out an
        oat seed, another, a blade of bluestem.

Copyright © 2002 Peter Streckfus All rights reserved
from Pleiades 22:2
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission