Crowsong
by Anna Benedict
The mycelium
spreads a-whispering
the unfortunate instinct to misery:
What lurks seething
in the gaptooth?
What whistles
through branches bare?
What flows
in fog-pools
of the hollow dark?
We scatter upon lightning flash
and choke on the bone-crack.
She pricked the hare at spearpoint
just to hear him whine.
But even the bird bends to eat her tail.
Her dandelionspine snaps, too,
in the end.
Our wings enfold and we genuflect scarce
to the hundred-eyed fox,
her pomegranate seeds gleaming
crimson. Abundant and blinking.
Her paws timegnarled,
her pelt sprung erect after so, so long…
Drop, hickory nut and acorn,
fly oh honeybee.
Run, little mice,
you silly willow-scum,
you lily-livered wretch.
We all atrophy the same:
From the inside out.