Thursday, February 5, 2015
they go insane when they see your dark hair.
I'm filled with birds by the thousands, all night-black and twisting,
letting me know they know their business;
letting me know they're there.
Each one can recognize a single face from a crowd.
Each one is individual,
The face they want is your face.
No use in quizzing them, they don't negotiate.
I can feel them when they get restless--
they remind me of the Nine Mile fire of 1975,
and the millions of nights since then.
They remind me that everything alive begins with black,
then flies, then falls, then stills again.
Here is another poem for you,
flocked with feather thread, I think--
a night-bloom by the crows demand
from match and bauble, soul and ink.
For Ella's challenge at Real Toads. I have tried to capture the feeling just before I write a poem. In addition, she insists on a nod to home; the Nine Mile fire of 1975 was the biggest in the history of the city where I live.