March on April into May,
Grey damp near summer weather’s here complete with crows,
The gods have gotten us together one more time,
Sharpest cawing and raven hunching of coal black wings, Yellow eyes alert to each movement down below, I’m huddled now over breakfast here myself, I am wary, I am worried, Flanneled to the max, Groaning with each chilly exhalation, Creaking forward to get a better look at the NY Times, This is retirement, A life without commute, And a life also without any commutation of advancing age, No real where to go, No real way out, Nothing doable anyway today, but television or silence, Or the midway barely audible finger tapping on an iPad screen, That’s where my life is now, In that soft tapping, in those just felt words Appearing as they do Like raindrops just beginning To dampen up the deck, Sky grey moist falls most morning times, That’s my way of starting up my life, Softly shrill siren sounds from a few blocks away, The hollow trembling roar of a climbing plane, The now near silence of the crows, The hooked beaked nod of death itself All set to float down on the day. Well come on in, have a seat, We’ll chat as I finish up the dishes, I’ll do mantra with you with each breath, The Vajra Guru, You know that don’t you? You can learn it from the crows, It’s their morning wake up call.
A Poem by Ken Mckeon
It’s the same story the crow told me,
It’s the only one he knows.
The Grateful Dead. Garcia-Hunter
Kafka, Aphorism 29
The crows maintain that a single crow could destroy the heavens. Doubtless that is so, but it proves nothing against the heavens, for the heavens signify simply: the impossibility of crows.
Yes, this captures the feeling.
Because of the crows.