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.
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