The crows scatter, straw rips through my shirt.
With just one act of violence you can see into my heart, it's
Dog-eared. Life is wire and wood. Old cords, a crucifix.

Is this vigil so lonely?

My days maybe short but they are blessed by sunshine
and starlight. I stand guard over the lunar fields,
of an eternal summer. The cracked earth is yellow,
un-ravaged by sleet and cold.

I may live here stuffed, but I can watch the clambering roots
heave from the soil like shipwrecked men rescued.
I can watch their desperate wells form from wicker earth
and gasp with water, sloshing dirt and clay to a molten relief.

I may stand stock and pelted by time
but I can watch the field mouse nest,
Such quivering babies, curled and blind emerge
and embark on the bravest of lives.

But even so, 
despite what i can see, 
I once got caught in phantom flight,
and forgot how still I was.
Because I was the crows,
lifted,
though my feet were still
just wood
nailed to the dirt.  

When I was toppled and the harvest was done,
I looked up and the moon was
grieving.