I hear the soft yodeling of pigeons
the sound my breath makes hitting against falling snow.
On the news today a thousand crows fell dead over Arkansas
a thousand more in Louisana.
Nobody knows why.
“When all questioning stops, the breath rises
filling the gap between the inside and the out.”
These kinds of thoughts come to my mind like quail to a corncob.
I look at them as I would a turnip left for no reason by the side of the road.
Train horns are blowing through the river gorge.
Wild turkeys step lightly in the side yard
feeling for hurled corn under the snow.
So hard to know one face from another in the dark.
Whose eyes am I seeing through?
Whose teeth are these turned the color of Irish tea?
I feel for them with a tongue inside the mouth.
They are like strangers gathered in a train station
looking for food.