early march.

Crows at shoulder height sitting on a fence.
I shiver as I pass them.
They scrutinise me, their eyes say “you’re in our debt.” They’re frozen, I realise.
Things around them are in motion, all’s a blur. The fence has faded into a perfect mid-grey, but they’re still there, very black, suspended in time. I wish they’d acknowledge me, in any way, I need no words. They once used to validate my mornings.
They way I got up, the time, the way I fixed coffee, the shirt and the tie I put on.
The friends I made, the points of view I put forth, the depths I discovered, the colours I showed, the dreams I loathed. And one evening they were no longer in my house, they left a note: a goodbye note. Farewell—they did not say, but I was suspecting. My house is single-space.
I’m in it and it’s what I have.
No unnecessary discussions, the crows understood that. And when they were gone I carried on
Just like before.
And knowing that they were out there—on the fence—
Helped to cope.