A Murder of Crows

Didn’t it seem more black than before?

This darkening?

More dread?

And gathering like that? Wasn’t it different?

-- like a murder of crows,

-- or a wounding of crows

-- or a slick waxwing?

It was different this time.

Didn’t it come, first, in strands on the breeze

Black as coal smoke, but threaded, isolate, easy to put out of mind?

And then the smell so acrid but also intermittent

A putrid whiff now and then of creosote and clay.

We waved it away.

I did.

At first, you could miss this darker darkening. It was

“Just a little breeze with some smoke in its eye”

Defying the redemption of solstice.

Circling with seasons, drifting and settling like dusty veils.

It pressed an apprehension, a foreboding

To nibble at the gut back then like stray mice in the grain.

To be probed with the tongue like you bother a broken tooth.

The news was bad. Word came on a death ship.

Bad news as relentless as Katrina.

Did we turn it off?

I did. I did.

Later, you had to think.

Reckon.

Chew words like character, destiny, principle.

Choke words like torture, incompetent, out of control.

Then done, doomed, lost, dust.

Maybe this time, we go under.

Maybe it’s bad enough to scream uncle, throw in the towel,

Crawl on your belly under the radar, stealing to Canada.

To say “I want no part of this.

Not in my name.

Not on my watch.

I am hysterical

For this murder of crows.”

Or stand there with ashes smeared across your mouth,

Tasting tar and oblivion

Clothes ripped and ragged, your heart drained long ago

To bargain, beg, to offer your throat, your sex, your hope of heaven

To be a faith offering, a tithe, a chip in trade.

To turn this death ship around.

You remember a dream called America.

Our boys. Our good men.

Your eyes have seen it shining

Holy with meaning.

And you briefly thought the enemy was over there.

Now you see the affable arrogant death monger.

Abu Ghraib revolt new Teflon king.

Drooling death bird. Inchoate. Spawn. Gruel lapper.

Who is he kidding? Who is he really working for?

On this night, in this deep dark,

Your confidence in redemption flags.

Do you shout back another day, another chance?

Or does the flame go out this time?

While the good people wonder if it’s serious.

You gathered here -- What is in your throat? Is there still a sound of silence?

A cacophony of possibility. A scraping of chains to be loosed.

Cough it up. Spit it out.

Can you still Imagine?

I can.

But only when we gather the ravens, and the wild birds – a flock of flockers.

A cobbling of characters. An industry of artists, a flight of teachers,

A congress of conspirators. A murder of crows. Committed to an older order.

To a call.

Let us diminish this dread night

Let us set the bonfire to vile vanities

And offer up belief in open hands, contemplative hearts, concern for kids.

And peace. In our time.

An end to war. In our time.

Let’s just try.

Again.

To call back the sun.

One more time and one more time

We will overcome.

We will study war no more

And like a tree by water not be moved.

Pounding swords, pounding swords.

Into hammers of justice

And bells of freedom to claim a new day.

Imagine light, love, you and me

Maybe again -

All you need is love --

To call back our fearless sun

Let’s call it home.

A Murder of Crows was written for the Solstice Celebration at the Trailer Art Center in Mountain View, Anchorage, Alaska. I was standing on the narrow span of a sawhorse, the only thing available to give some height above the crowd. It was a precarious perch. I gripped the doorjamb and leaned forward. The impression is one of “I’m here to say this and then I am out of here!”

Sandra Kleven

3978 Defiance Street

Anchorage, Alaska 99504

skleven@ak.net

907 332 6735