# CROWS' LAUGHTER

The jeering of these crazy crows
has somehow crossed into my dream
to scream and circle there. I seem
in sleep to know the thing it knows.

Evil

Death is in the world, it says:
something on the garden path
salt as blood and cold as death
remembers where the dying was.

I find it with the morning, too!

When morning comes I find it too:
fallen on the path to gather
drops of silence from the dew,
one inscrutable black bleeding feather.

Only the wakened sleeper knows
the infinite cold malice of the crows.