Sewanee from Humphreys Hall
Elsewhere crows are laughing,
Giving each other hell, but the two
That I am watching keep their cool
And peck the earth.
A rocking chair is fine
On a fine day like this.
But mine won’t rock.
It only sits.
My two crows share a space
I’d otherwise think
Was too close for their comforts.
Bat-berserk , those elsewhere crows
Rout each other out of trees,
Only to relinquish moments later.
Such a fine day for July.
Eighty degrees tops and a breeze
That rustles up an October sense.
I think of brunswick stew.
In July. It’s a lie,
I know, but take what you can get.
Come next week, August,
At the latest, I’ll think of now
Like a story I made up
And confused for real
But came to terms with in the end.
Remembering the fiction, the headache
Of setting the scene.
Blocking the dialogue between me
And my crows that have flown.
To the graveyard, of all things.
But make nothing of that.
Or of the septuagenarian reading the names out loud,
Her hand is in the elbow of his light jacket.
Or of the church bells donging four.