Crow, October

October, before it had

a name. Still, though, a month of

low iron skies and protracted

sulks and cold rain and bursts

of crisp radiance that never

lost their ability to

dazzle and surprise.

A flash of revelation

even as the hammer fell:

We will miss this world

when it’s gone, or

when we are.

Same difference.

The crow, I’ve been told,

spoke first in the New World,

gave the truth its first

utterance. And the truth it

spoke was as blunt as

it was timeless: Hey,

numbnuts, it said.

Hey, hey.

Look here.

Listen up.

Here I am,

and there

you are.