crows, talking gibberish

The memory is so clear, so here-and-now

That it most likely never really happened,

One of those mis-memories which lead you to insist, rather huffily,

That it indeed was just that way.

In my mind’s eye, it is a mid-November late afternoon,

The light, no longer tinged with October’s sepia softness,

Slanted, harsh—bitter and defeated, perhaps,

And, in the stand of stark, denuded trees

Some distance beyond the barbed-wire fence

Which sits just past the pavement’s end,

(Placed there to enclose a herd of cows,

Fence and bovines equally shabby and time-worn,

Maintaining an unsteady detente

Between animal and sub-division lawn)

A mad surfeit of crows shriek and scream and babble

Like the prelude to the end of days, and I feel—no, I know

The birds are trying to say something to me,

Impart some secret normally revealed only to those ancients

Skilled in the arts of divining those elemental truths

Which dwell surreptitiously in their entrails,

But I am unable to glean anything from their frenzied clacking and jawing.

Soon, it is time to go in (the day, not unlike my dinner,

Is getting cold), and presently it will be time to receive

Those gently stated but unassailable verities

Courtesy of the evening’s designated wise man

(Rotarian glad-handing Mickey; the madly winking,

Almost leering Scrooge McDuck;

Perhaps even the good Walt himself),

Words requiring no pre-washing,no parsing, no translation.

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