Perspective Power

There came a point that I realized I was not going toward them.

They were coming toward me, the white-haired creature with eyes squinting upward.

First they landed on the front lawn, walking with swagger on their pliable, four-pronged feet, ones that resemble the fingers of wiry witches.

They had been places and knew things, righteous crones with magic in their bones.

Then the airborne creatures scattered among the trees, following me down the hill as they shrieked, We’re here! We’re here!

In the cool of a glorious morning between days of walloping heat, they swirled in the open space down by the school made quiet by summer.

Their black wings lifted to the stand of cypress trees, and they perched on nearly every tiptop branch, sudden sentries for my awakening.

Good morning, I called. I see you!

What lingers is the mystery between what can and cannot be known in the art of calling crows.