Back in the fall of 1993, I spent a week with my grandfather, who was in his late 80s. I was engrossed in poetry then, and frequently had a certain young lady on my mind. She was pretty and sweet, and I loved spending time with her. We were just friends. Do you know what I mean?

Thanksgiving was over, and it was just the two of us in the house. Grandma was visiting my folks on the coast. Just me and Papa, the crows, and my thoughts about that girl.

What’s bringing all this to mind after 10 years? Well, last week was the anniversary of my Papa’s death. He held out to 97 years of age. I miss him. Grandma’s not feeling too well at 92. And my friend Kim? Well, I haven’t talked to her in four years, and I don’t know where she went. She was from Lake Arrowhead. Maybe she went home. God have mercy.

THE CROWS

Having breakfast with Papa

as the morning slowly warms

from freezing, thinking of animals.

The coyote cultivates his heart

to sadness, moves alone for food,

dies on the road.

Out in the almond orchards and grapes

from electric wires and trees

a flock of crows is lifted up.

By noon I’ve seen a few

perched in the old mulberry

cut back for winter.

The crows speak of my unspeakable

solitude, and though I struggle

and pray against such thoughts,

I think of your body: your throat,

breasts, delicate hands.

Your hands. I know that a man

must die of such thoughts, or

die of how distant you are.

Like the distance

from this quiet house in a flat town

to the silent encircling hills,

with clouds pretending to be snow.

© 1993 Kyle Kimberlin

from the chapbook Signal Fires