Painting by Michelle Anderson
Crow or Car Tire
Listen: days are like chestnuts waiting in the road
but are we the car tires or the crow? The taste
of winter in the still-warm breeze. The morning flare
of light dampening the smell of squirrel flattened
down the road. Henry Ford doesn’t understand Arkansas.
Only the crow understands Arkansas. Mobilis in
mobile: only the laughing bird is light enough
to waft across the heavy breeze. This is because
he spits pain each time he opens his beak. The black
sheen of night, his wings: these are what keep him
tethered to the trees. Eventually, he will float free
only to freeze in the hungry void. He will murder
and devour the freshest of souls before teatime, swallow
newborns whole while we fret over free-range eggs,
stumble into the morning light and speed over country
roads, eyes on our rearview mirrors as our dumb tires
crush anything that stumbles in our way.
Listen: days are like chestnuts waiting in the road
but are we the car tires or the crow? The taste
of winter in the still-warm breeze. The morning flare
of light dampening the smell of squirrel flattened
down the road. Henry Ford doesn’t understand Arkansas.
Only the crow understands Arkansas. Mobilis in
mobile: only the laughing bird is light enough
to waft across the heavy breeze. This is because
he spits pain each time he opens his beak. The black
sheen of night, his wings: these are what keep him
tethered to the trees. Eventually, he will float free
only to freeze in the hungry void. He will murder
and devour the freshest of souls before teatime, swallow
newborns whole while we fret over free-range eggs,
stumble into the morning light and speed over country
roads, eyes on our rearview mirrors as our dumb tires
crush anything that stumbles in our way.
C.L. Bledsoe
No comments:
Post a Comment