I talk with the crows
And a horse voice croaks
The name of her lover,
Whose body fed foxes under the oaks.
But I assure
"A shadow waits nearby,
Beyond the reach of foxes,
For your black heart's reply."
So The Shadow watches
While the Black Heart beats.
And the clutch is warmed above,
By maternal heat.
But from below I know
What neither sees and none can say.
Dripping from the nest
Quicksilver drains blackness grey.
Beside a field of stone,
The son of a farmer's son made wood.
With body mind and soul of steel,
His father rarely spoke a word --
Save for the necessity.
On a chill September afternoon,
The father was more talkative than usual.
He leaned upon his ax,
Turned to the field of stone,
And pointed toward the near side.
"Once when a boy, I was after cattle with Blue."
Spoke lips that only rarely spoke,
"Once I saw one. You never forget the eyes."
And the ax was raised again.
Now the son eased down his ax and asked,
"What happened to them?"
The father, not missing a beat of his work, replied
"They were all shot.
And nothing's the same anymore."