Essay: Minimal Crow

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.

 

 

 

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