James Toupin
Calls
Damn crows.
Eyes open all night
imagining how otherwise
I might furnish a life,
I heard, still in the dark,
harbinger birdsong.
Robins? Sparrows?
She would know.
And then the caws
silenced all else,
calling a halt to such
insidious bucolic.
A stridency strutted.
Our kind had yet
to take its place
in the morning.
The wind that hustles us
down slot streets
would resolve all sounds
to ourselves.