The Crows Are Singing

Now it is dark January and the crows are singing. A river runs through my heart, where thoughts drown too soon. My mind plucks old green hats, out of the frosted air. the hats belong to dead leprechauns, doppelgangers lost at sea, trying to get here, to be me. Sometimes the sky is too brilliant, it hurts old wounds. Today the sky is a grey gun, and as hard as gallstones. January tramples over snowmen scatters then into phantom blizzards or stickmen, holy thorns of dark brier crowning their twig-pointed heads. Soon this freeze-framed pantomime, will be known as February. The birds will die and recover, and so shall I.