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
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.")