Talking Crow

Winter speaks crow, a black tongue,

a hoarse voice more like a cough,

barbwired, words bitten short.

Winter holds

little puffs of breath

caught in the air.

Crow is the language of drowning,

a voice for calling black dogs

in from the snow.

                                                                     bio    printable

Circles

There’s still ice in the pasture,

in the muddy chalices of hoofprints,

and bluebirds push their heads

into fencepost houses gray as bone.

I empty the roosts in the coop,

but can’t tell the difference

between chicken and egg.

Coyote assembles and disassembles.

Call it hello

or goodbye, thank you

or you’re welcome.

When the first salmon pushes upstream,

rounds the circle, walking Escher’s stairwell,

we will dress his bones in ochre.

By the pond, the broken willow stretches,

fingers the earth,

pale green shoots rising

from the bank.

                                                                    printable