Beckleigh -For Lenny
He heard the crows,
morning-cawing-crows,
morning-language-cawing-crows.
There was for him,
always, uncertainty in the cawing,
an uncertainty he couldn’t hear,
though he tried for most of his life.
There was brotherhood, yes, brotherhood—
an association-brotherhood, a knowing, an approval,
with only one man to answer—himself.
If he could be the man with the answer,
he would really know the crow-uncertainty-language,
then his own, yet unknown need for approval would be released.
He thought, Oh, to be in the crow’s nest at feeding time.
Magnanimous tutors all, crows, Kafka-ing their way through life,
with K their jackdaw father— great approval there.
He thought, Don’t wait for that one.
He wondered if he’d been under a spell,
the crow-uncertainty-language-spell
of Beckleigh, beeches, bluegills,
shrubs and lightning bugs that sang their own cawing-choruses
in waxed paper covered mayonnaise jars.
Beckleigh, where he and neighbor children
called out from tree-castles,
from every named and friendly bush,
and in mimetic blessedness
that flowed from every child’s heart,
cast their primal caw, caw, caw in tones that pleased the earth itself.
Each step they made, each caw that came
pledged allegiance to some truth,
with approval from below shooting up their legs,
and wind and sun sweeping it into their nostrils.
Dedication and commitment never fell out of season.
One day after years took hold of
Beckleigh, beeches, crows and caws
he heard the distant cry of uncertainty,
like Echo, throwing her voice across the chambers of his heart.
He sensed an essence, perhaps love itself—he paused;
morning-cawing-crows,
morning-language-cawing-crows,
caw, caw, caw.
Oh, to be in the crow’s nest at feeding time.
Copyright © Orma Sullivan | Year Posted 2009
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