Red Canyon Petroglyph
Crows. Mud.
When crows controlled the weather
it rained, loudly. A neighbor shouted
I should build an Ark. Ship of death.
Mine.
I go with my hat, my rain jacket,
last year’s sneakers. Clouds
part for the moon, a hangnail.
The rest involves a phantom limb.
Necessity being the mother of survival,
the Pleistocene woman’s tracks paused
(preserved in earth’s ledger like a string trio),
as she cocked an ear to probable crows.
Tripping on acid, I walked to the river
no longer caring if the world watched.
Cirrostratus feathered the sky.
If there was a moon, I forget which one.
My grandfather showed me where he mired
the tractor in the syncopated slurp of mud.
He had to jump, it was only sweet corn.
Told you so, told you so, said the crows.
_______________
John Minczeski