Hunter, Red, Crow
A bellowing crow chooses this
zone of sky, its jargon
the rush and velocity
streams of air speak,
to give its voice to. I brush
at a fly in the corner
of my field of view.
The yellow air crosses the crow,
snatches up its voice,
drags it off. Oak leaves
purple as bruises
cover the road.
The sun, a lifetime of walking away,
breaks helium, burns hydrogen.
The moon belongs
to the hunter, like always.
Walking amidst the rush of the wood,
where if there is a heaven
it is a bridled thing—
panicky, slow to trust—
her sandals lashed tight,
the hunter misses nothing.
Her gaze on the crow
clasping a cherry in its beak,
she gets close enough
to hear its eyelids click,
talons scratch the branch it clings to.
Her gaze upon
the turkey’s head—angular,
blue gaping spade,
wild with trouble—
pivoting as, compactly, afoot,
quick through the brush, silent
even in alarm, the brood forages:
a blue that looks painted on.
Dogwood leaves, the barn across the pond,
a clay-hauler’s taillights
as he rounds the last bend
before the state line: all blare their red.
The sky a blank sheet.
The crow beneath.
I would snatch that cherry—
sweet distress—from its beak.