sorrowful pilgrimage
it was the day after
our bones tattered & torn
knowing not if we were
dead of alive
overnight the crows
became nocturnal
as if the poles had reversed
after a century
of fluctuating
they had become
our field guide
and though we asked
they wouldn’t say if we were
dead or alive
time passed as if
in reverse
each lifeless town we reached
showed no sign of
blood or skin or bone
wildflowers grew by the roadside
we picked them
we put them to our noses
but to no avail
the crows said it was okay to eat them
and so we did
as we traveled further
back in time
the crows became
eerily quiet
in the dead of night
and we knew not if we were
dead or alive
april two thousand twenty-two
copyright j matthew waters
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