It was the squawking
that kept me awake.
Two of them
outside my window like
devils or bats, crows —
The cleverest of birds,
not sweet blackbirds,
(birds of deepest winter)
black crows
those perceptive brains
crying to each other–
Long into the night
past the dark, wee hours
no lanterns to provide light
no guide wires hanging–
nothing but dark intuition
no making sense
no perceptible language
continuing as if
the night would never end.


This entry was published on 11.17.14 at 12:16 pm. It’s filed under automatic writing, creative writing, journal entry, prose poetry, writing and tagged , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.


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