Crow: Three Poems

Crow: Three Poems

Crow: Three Poems 1920 1282 Erin Coughlin Hollowell
A dissolving language Before sunrise, anything could be Crow. Eldritch creep of hoar frost along slate seams and still the light is swallowed dim chills the pulsebeat. Rosehips shrunken and unpalatable. Crow wonders down dream pathways, not this door nor that
Erasing the words as she writes them Each mountain trails a veil of spindrift tethered to high cold wind. I could be that there is only one word they speak, but who could climb high enough and still be humbled enough to listen. Crow heard the word, and maybe, understood.
We once believed in binomials Crow picks up a stick and heads for sand to scratch out the math. One: we are meat. Two: time moves in a straight line outward. Solve for: we are all going to die. And too soon. Corollary: the sun chases after the moon's pocket change.

Header photograph © Kate Koenig.

Share This:

Leave a Reply

Back to top