In the pastel washes of dawn,
three figures, garbed in loose pajamas and looser hoodies,
emerge from a rickety wooden door,
a brittle draft welcoming their wandering nature.
Palms sway with an air of forgetfulness
as soft forms of clouds drift in silence,
masking, and then revealing, a half moon,
wrapped in a silver band of thyme—
Casting shadows upon a chain of Stygian crows,
crying out in woeful strings:
A cacophony of calls, creaks and screeches,
the air ringing with their impromptu melodies,
discordantly scratching against one another
in waves of shivering reverberations.
One by one, the song falters into listless rhythm
and dissolves into concentric circles of the crow’s lament.
Perched upon street wires, the crows besiege the wanderers’
quiet steps with their spectral gaze—
The inescapable totality of the world bearing down upon them.
