I had a dream when I was twenty-three
– you remember – my last year of college.
I was far from home and it was cold.
There was a flock of crows, a thousand,
maybe more, flying eastward at twilight.
The sky was saffron and they were pure
and perfect black, cawing loudly down
at me. Suddenly they stopped, frozen
in flight, in mid-stroke of every wing,
silent. I waited. It grew dark and every bird
began to glow dim red or blue, brightening,
becoming magic lanterns hung by wires
from the pure black sky.
When I was forty, they had our grandpa
in the hospital – you remember – he had
that stroke and took so long to die.
There were magic lanterns hung by wires
in the dining hall, glowing red and blue.
So I waited with him. I waited months,
years, and then a generation beside him.
He died and I am waiting even now.
I’m growing old, but they still haven’t
turned back into crows.