Crow calls from the top of a pine

With a voice made of rain drawn from the deep

grey of another Ohio winter.

You swore you would not let him in again,

but here he is threatening or apologizing,

you can no longer tell the difference.

He cries and cries, and your eyes water

as if you are there in the bird’s throat.

To be of consequence. To be the slow, rising god.

You can almost feel the force of his words,

a cold morning demanding acknowledgment.

The world exists apart from how you feel,

you tell him. You want what you want.

But he’s never listened to anyone.

Some days it’s best not to speak. Some days

all you can do is pull the barbed words

from your own throat, smash them together until

they calcify and turn to stone.

You make as if to throw it at Crow.

He stares stupidly at the corrugated sky.

And so, you put the stone in your pocket

and walk the road among the dendritic trees,

a demon of silence.

You find a body of water and throw

the stone across. Listen to the water’s song.