The Meadow Annual Literary Arts Journal 2022

36 The Meadow Crows Rebecca A. Eckland Yin and yang are not circles but oppositional fields Vibrating through bird nests, tangled into the feathers Of a baby crow fallen from the nest he brought home. The crow nestled on a white towel on the kitchen floor scattered With birdseed constellations when I came home from the office to find He was determined to save it. Are mysteries born into the dark matter of the universe Black like my suit and tie? When I was an athlete, I thought I knew What strength was. Saving time by traversing space. It catches up to me, in my bruised ribs and fractured pelvis. That makes me wonder if a strong woman is a monster— Frankenstein and neon green: One leg up, an arm’s length away Primal womb, the body’s language, a spiral ontology And centrifugal forge around which a murder of crows At twilight sculpt orbits in stardust. Meanwhile he, on the kitchen floor, tiny seeds turned to dust Trying to feed the baby crow with a fused beak: I’d rather die than. Google tells me that it won’t; evolution Hates domestic scenes. I wait until the pink winter sky turns dark

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