A crow is calling out up in a birch tree,
where the whole world could see, but some
how it was only me who witnessed.
Another answered with its own song
taking so long just to glide over
the building I was headed for,
but didn’t want to go to anymore.
This ice covered chain link square
where no one cares and everything is beautiful,
but not enough for all the hands demanding more.
While at the core there is a counter
clockwise axel winding back
towards what we’ve tried for
all this time leave behind.
I don’t want to be kind when I am thinking
back on all I should have done
when I could run in almost any known direction
by those rye fields we would drive past
always starting off too fast.
I watch them both go and their feathers
catch the shadow of the passing
clouds that linger like a thought
we have together getting higher
than the city even reaches.
Teleporting Typewriter 