What Is Given You
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Questions like Indian summer,
like shale, the layers pressing down
until they form into the new–
hued purpose of marble,
the color of dead leaves
or of those who look back.

It is better to look
at the black line of hills
against the night.
A child’s gift—the crow, found
in the yard, brought to mother
who burns it.
Not before the child discovers
pale flecks moving
through its coat: a smell
webbed with cheeping from the nest
she finds in the pine next day.
She follows the sound to the very top,
sticks her hands in a softness
of fledglings. Two

will fall out during the night,
another will die from cold, and the last
will be crushed in her hand
as she tries to bring it safely down—
the blood streaks around her eyes
when she rubs them:

like an ancient charm
for waning until she’s the darker flecks
of blackberries, the seeds
a crow will pick and bear home,
to her own.

 

from Flux by Cynthia Hogue
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