It seems that crows are not communal. I don’t know. They are given credit for an industrious sort of cleverness but, today, over the rippled lake, this group was raucous and jumbled, debating their jabberwock in staccato caws, the answers too rapid to have studied the question. Belligerent oneupmanship was my thought.

I met a woman who was walking a chihuahua. She called out a hearty “good afternoon!”, and made comment on my umbrella. I smiled, and fumbled for a pleasantry.

A man backed out of his driveway in a bathtub Porsche, making sure to rev the engine, a pleasing sound to some, I think, although I don’t know what is meant by this…that is, I don’t know what I mean.

It has been declared that it is Fall, now. The seasons have become old hat. Flutter of leaves, then snow, early birds, then butterflies.

I spent the night in the hospital, and was diagnosed.

How does one borrow time, and from where? I don’t know.

To the little kid I knew:
I’m sorry
that you’ve learned the language
of unlove;
that yours was a party house
with only bought warmth;
that you ran to other houses
that took in the tainted.
I’m sorry for your silent bathroom cries,
and for the long sleeves you wear in the summer.

What I imagine is that it would take trillions of lifetimes to walk to a star, if such a path could be laid.

As it is, in this few minutes of a waning life, small pips of existence are noticed along the way: that the summer weeds are as verdant as a jungle. That the creepers, flyers, and hoppers are more jittery than they have been in other summers.

That the lawns of the estate homes are all brown, despite the money. Care seems to have gone inside, behind drawn curtains. There might be wisdom there.

A single squirrel eats all of the peanuts from our feeder, fighting off his challengers.

In the lowly ditches, a single sock (rolled up). Common beer bottles and plastic cups. Tree limbs, lopped into equal sections, seeping pine sap (a smell that’s a hint of heaven).

Walk me to the stars, my love. Walk me to the stars.

You are different.

You can look into my eyes,

and not look away.

I remember, now,

how to look into a mirror,

unflinchingly.

From what life do you come,

and how came the art of this miracle?

This smile that cracks my lips.

This wanting to play.

In this morning’s dream, she handed me an egg cup. In it were her wedding rings, her earrings, and a gold chain strung through a cross. As I held it, questioning, she folded my hand over it, saying “Bury these beyond time. Bring me the new.” I had not seen her for many years and, having no track of her life, felt confused and of small use to her. Sensing this, she pushed back my closed hand and said “You will know.”

That melody you once heard, but could never find again. The one that came back in a dream, then was lost once more in the surfacing of the day. Look for it, my dear, in the half-heard fade of that nameless tune that otherwise was base and common.