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 shelled peanuts

the best;

the days pass by,

the ball of fire inside 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 floodwaters 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 within a gently

flowing river, floating and bobbing

with the current,

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.

.

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