black feet, black bill, black breath
the crow tells me I don’t know
I don’t listen
warn them hungry my branch back up stuck-man fly away
I don’t know the crow I don’t have time
step pluck babymouth wind
The crow listen
Frosted windshields challenge scrapers,
white horizon blurred by flakes.
They’re all indoors now at Molly’s red house,
though the heat there’s busted-great!
Lucky the girls are warm; they were given
ratty fur coats, made elegant, bundling their charms.
Magically flowing locks of auburn, Bethany. Green eyes with
gold flecks looking up at me, a questioning squint.
I lap a tongueful of sugary milk from her navel. Delicious.