Flat on my back in deep, cold grass,
I watch line after crooked line of crows advance
from an unknown point north to an unknown point south,
passing directly over this vacant field.
Black wings beat without sound.
Small heads turn
until unseen eyes meet
and the flock adjusts its ragged formation.
Occasionally one caws, and I
stretch a long, thick blade flat between thumbs,
place lips on arched knuckles, and force my air
through the dark hollows of my folded hands,
Even the birds are startled
by the accuracy of the song. Eyes searching
for the grounded straggler, they reply.
I call. They reply. I call again,
unable to tire of this game
that is not a game, but one species
across a void
until orange clouds dissipate to grey
and the last undulating line
vanishes over treetops.
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Copyright © 2008 by Bradley Steffens
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