Dear Night,
Thank you for the crows, Day
borrowed them
for a very long time, and I
want you to know
(as the crows certainly
know)
that their flight, their
calls to each other
from the tip-tops of
sidestreet maples,
the way they rejoice
in opened flesh: a deer
at the edge of the road,
these things should be
happening
at night, dear Night, your
time, your place.
And so dear night let’s
broker a deal:
We will give you back the
crows.
We will include the sawbox
containing
their voices, and return
them
to the realm of underbrush
rustle,
a rabbit’s shriek,
a coyote’s bark.
All we ask for in exchange
are bonfires,
those midnight bursts
of morning, and later
we can discuss the true
home range of the moon.
(From a manuscript in progress, called, for now, "69 Letters I'd Been Meaning to Write.")
