Morning Crows

the crows come early on the mountain,

between 6 and 7,

arriving 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 day passes 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 floodwater recedes,

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 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,

is the morning crows.

.

.