Tuesday, November 23, 2010

seven



The rain stops
in the steamy mist
i spy 7
in that murder of crows-
as I pass, they call out,
as if expecting me
as though awaiting me-
as if to bring me
the gift of 7.
A secret that's never been told
of journeys never made
told in echos
and caws-

then lift off squat and absurd;
hurled into unseen lifts
and airborne.

1 comment:

Melissa said...

This is really! Sounds like some of the stuff I write.