Very grey and austere this week. I'm all Martha Wainwright and Wallace Stevens. Brown rice and endless rain. I am not too adept at making poems right now, but I feel like a masterful slasher. I've weeded a lot of unforgivable lines from the new drafts. And that's progress.
There's one of those murders of crows that consists of several hundred birds spending time in my periphery. They were blackening the graveyard I pass on my way to grocery shop. They make a slow parade overhead on many of my walks. This probably sounds like a metaphor in conjunction with the proceeding paragraph, but it's not. It's literal. And awe inspiring.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
1 comment:
Yes, the dark birds.
We seem to live along a migratory route, Birdway 66 or some way in which birds by the hundreds--thousands even--linger in the trees, litter the earth, loiter on the high wires crossing these plains, the cackling at times maddening, other times melodic; and then they take to the air, sudden, though slow, a river forming in the sky...
They shit on my fences.
It's quiet tonight. Snow piling. The horses are still.
Post a Comment