#12

Wheels ushering self down, down a hill, faster, morning chill and wet whipping eyes still red with sleep. The sweet sour musk of vehicular exhale. A bridge lined with crows, an avian parade. They greet, exclaim, snarl, all in their minimalist language. Their reduced vernacular. The caw, the primal, all-encompassing call. The croak to the frog. The bark to the dog. The silence to the tree. Something atavistic stirs inside my chest. Bubbles. Reaches for a cry, a whoop, a shriek. Nothing escapes but the language of trees.