Corvus, small as an eyelash. The leaves of winter scatter on the wind. I can’t call my mother because the gates of heaven are so far from this house.
& the crow, small as a bitten fingernail, flies through my torso.
It goes without saying: no one else sees a thing.
& yes, the day’s geography is before me, the long day.
& I will be walking around with this micro crow deep inside.