By the shore, a crow is giving
chase to a red-tailed hawk. It's persistence is quite noteworthy.
Despite the hawk’s maneuvers in an
April wind both brisk and steady, the crow is having none of it.
Its black discernment permeates
each wave of wing and tail feather until the hawk heads out for open waters.
The crow cries out a single caw and
turns into a butterfly. Its wings are black but bordered by a filigree of gold
and seems to have no flight plan.
It flutters here and there as if
connecting dots that only it can see. I walk into its verse and witness inspiration
is the force behind each word.
I write a line that comes from blackest
nowhere and then another one just follows it as if it saw a place to go I never
saw before.
And so I see myself in open waters
after what appears to be a span of countless years, although I know I'm only
now conceiving all its reverie.
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