Crows could blacken the sky with wings
without any two colluding or in concert.
Two crows might sit closely on a wire,
face opposite ways to see the same future.

Think of me as nearby, but incognito.
I can know so little of your life, always
wanting to know more. Like a dog’s tail
wagging excitedly, impossible to still,
eager to ingratiate with human company.

Years ago we discussed friendship, loyalty
and respect. These principles, however,
can weaken in time, expanding distance
intervening. A western storm may arrive,
typically, but the favorite elm has fallen
and the pet collie has been killed, both
occupants of our local sacred spaces.
Marauding crows sit on branches and
know in collective darkness the difference.

Your rock-solid mother, always kind to me
and more, an advocate, a friend; she passed
leaving craters across our landscape. Do you
see me now, by the stream, stamping dust
in frustration, beneath the remaining oak?


Keith Moul is a poet of place, a photographer of the distinction light adds to place. Both his poems and photos are published widely.