Walking with Crows

Words words

what good are they

when every day

just hurts too much

and there's nothing

left but the

rush of the drug

and crows that

descend outside

my window

Pecking at the

leftover crumbs

on the side of the road

leftover songs

that flood my soul

in spite of

the hopelessness

the black hopelessness

of crows?

Outside my door

they gather

those tremendous

black-winged wonders

witless survivors

of a winter sky

and a driving rain

until there is nothing

left to peck at when

the roads wash away

Yet still we

go walking

the crows weaving

in and out of the

trees above me

making circles

in this lonely

endless hungry

place of pain and

it doesn't matter that

we're going nowhere

What matters is

the moment of

power and glory

in the morning

when a certain drug

combination saves

my pain-filled body

fires the leaden

and brings it back

again to being

And to crows

and yet more crows

and a crow song

in my head

like a death threat

but blessed

because we're

still alive

and we're going

we're going somewhere

(February 22, 2000 - the day after my 43rd birthday)