I wake, and a window is open.
Out on the wires two crows are invoking
A moon from billions of years ago.
Their voices are harsh from old hoping
That wells in their throats and keeps them choking
On words they’ve pretended not to know.
The moon of their strenuous devising
Swells slow and bleeds on the horizon.
It tears open the clouds as it falls
Towards earth. The crows grow quiet, but dance
On the wires as hot rain spatters in squalls
Through the window and withers the plants
On the sill. I mourn only the ferns
And the aloe, not you, as the earth burns.