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.")