The sound of crows chased my dreams
Away this morning as effortlessly
As they drove the quiet vulture from
The black walnut tree behind the house
My family lives in. I won’t call anything mine,
Not even you. Not even the crows who spin out
And then return, black boomerangs.
They leave so they can come back.
The breeze picks up and forgets. Anything
outside, like wind chimes in the dark,
could be the voice of the vulture’s dream.
Two pine trees, like brothers who won’t talk.