Monday, February 18, 2013

Dear Night

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.")

1 comment:

  1. Oh yes, a manuscript! Lovely poem - I like the black crows belonging to the night and their rejoicing "in opened flesh."