A hundred crows from all corners,
Flew into view, and whirled about,
As if the cracked earth set quaking,
As if the sky was tiding, sloe black,
What ominous undulations accrued,
What murderous tribulations due?
The very sound they made was tear,
Was tirade and all those black flecks;
Dark sparkles of sun, shadows of fear.

Troubled waters rise—
Sands march, locust lost in maize,
Harvest moon sinking.

Four crows, black on cloud,
Dark, sordid wings parry and ******—
Murdering white skies.

Ring-necked doves resting
Coo, build below higher nest—
Red hawks in the eggs.

Her angelic face,
Was deft softness, tranquility,
My bed of feathers.

Words failed when we spoke,
Heads wanting to tilt before,
  .  .  .  Her eyes said it all.

As the sun went down,
Her smile after my apology,
  .  .  .  Little gift to me.

After summer rain  .  .  .
In coolness of rising mist,
Lone frog jumped in pond.

Dark, dangerous woods,
Phases of the flashing moon,
Turning heads of owl.

Sadness follows me like a lost puppy,
Looming and pattering at my feel like rain.
Whining like a smoke detector
When a child makes a mistake.
I inspire depression.
An earthquake.
I step in fairy-like
Movements, trying to be quiet
Like a woman should be.
Destruction ripples in my wake.
I am a bulldozer crashing a funeral,
Demolishing the memories we mourn.