On phone lines crows feel words
flowing beneath their feet.
Walking on mud or new snow,
they translate gossip, joy, anger, grief
into a language of lines,
marks I can't decipher.
From high perches
they speak their raucous words,
laugh at me
when I try to answer...
Crows scratch their calligraphy
in snow or soft earth,
not caring what I say,
not caring what I want,
not caring what I know.
© Jean Sampson, 2010
1 comment:
Images come so readily to you. Last night, when you were reading the haiku-like poems that tumbled from twenty- and thirty-minute bursts of writing in your journal, it was too fast-paced for me to even take them in. I like the balance of this poem, where you explore the images of the crows; that feels as if you have pushed beyond the original picture. (Guess that sounds awfully un-Zenlike on my part.)
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