I believe that if you rub the forehead
of a captured crow clockwise
in small circles, it will gift you
with the knack of comprehension
teach you to understand the cawing
conversations of its cousins, those
who’ve roosted darkly in the maples,
and now are waking up the day.
I heard the congregation, all
the crows’ brash chattering above
the morning mist rising from the river
still lavender with hope.
I am dubious, although I’d like to trust
that this bright river rattling through the gorge
will come soon to a shallow peace, flash
its stony gifts, glinting catch-eyes for the crows.
Beth Spencer currently lives near Minneapolis, MN, loves travel, and is a notable example of the persistence of hope over experience. She has been messing about with poetry since fifth grade when she won a “Why I Like to Read Good Books” contest by submitting her essay in poem form.
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