the middle is all called grey

i can tell these two crows are teenagers
by their hunger and their recklessness

i feed them anyway and they never say thank you

like all youth
their gift is their presence

they haven’t yet learned how to tell time
or rather, they don’t think about time at all
just the way you don’t think about breathing

until you can’t

i hold onto the edge of this curtain
dusty lace and faded white (or is that my hair)

and smile at nothing but birds and sunshine

because it isn’t
silence that haunts you

and to turn away is the same as standing still,
moving forward is no different than sleeping well
beneath a smoky sky filled with endless flight

stars in reverse





A poem a day for 30 days, in honor of National Poetry Month.
This post is part of NaPoWriMo. see more here.

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