Morning Crows

The crows come early here
on the mountain,
arriving between 6 and 7,
like an invading army,
complete with advance scouts,
privates and generals,
a secret society of mystic warriors,
ancient and old,
wise beyond wisdom and words;

they like the shelled peanuts the best.

The days pass by,
the ball of fire
inside my chest grows,
choking breath and life,
I search for strength,
wondering how much longer,
how much further,
but it passes just the same,
gathering myself for
another round,
a new day,
more crows.

The rains start to fade,
the flood waters recede,
now the heat begins,
relentless and unforgiving,
burning within
until there is nothing left to burn,
sucking the last ounces of energy,
destroying everything it touches.

The memories drift by,
like trapped trash and debris
within a gently flowing river current,
floating and bobbing,
becoming stuck in long forgotten
log jams and curved muddy bends,
sleep finally comes,
tucked in-between the sweat and coughs;

and the only thing that matters anymore
is the morning crows.
.
.