Crows Talking...or Not... (Sonnet)

 

Welcome to the universe of “small,”

where black and tortured moods creep in, prevail:

We tend to talk too much, or not at all,

taut-stretched on verbal racks, and hard as nails.

I’m feeling gusts that blow the truth around,

now venturing one eye into that cave

(so desolate the light and oozing brown),

I recognize myself, but cannot save

Some meaning of this day to justify

more conversations ending in a draw.

Pointing east and west and not to fly:  

Convoluted love a rasping “Caw!”

And finally, alone.

Silent back to back on shaky bough,

we want to say, to ask, but don’t know how.

Kay Weeks

1.9.2012

 Poem, photos: KW