Crow Songs

Call, Call, Call…


comes, pushes, ticky-tack

creeps through long soft

pine feathers – ssshhh…

has a voice like small



Corn whispers,

invites the tribe.

Silk floats up from fat

cob, waves on hot breeze,

signals, “Here.”

We descend

dressed dark for green banquet.

Lookout fasts on high branch

swaying over still straight man.

Stillness remains.

We bend to the harvest,

taste of root, rain, sunfire.

Wind rushes up rows,

stalks rustle, toss.

Still man lurches, whirls

clatter-shine weapons, throws

battered hat.

Lookout calls.

The meal is done.


One coldest season

Owl was a red truth.

Nine dark princelings flew

into the furnace of

her throat.

Snow fell.

Sky sifted down on

one cold sentry.

e. yon/2002 (from Fruit & Bones)


4 thoughts on “Crow Songs

  1. It’s the same story the crow told me
    It’s the only one he know –
    like the morning sun you come
    and like the wind you go


    Funny how one thing triggers another and another…

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