Black Crow / Burnt Land

Black Crow / Burnt Land

Dark wings strum the plains.
He belongs to their mob.
Hardpans pulse his blood,
footprints journey on demand—
not tense or breathless
but with one foot, then another,
in cushioned unison
with the half-light of dawn,
the fire bands at sunset.
Attachment to land is the red loam
squelched between naked toes,
his frame blends with bony outcrops
as he digs for yam.
Surrounding hills form an attic
open to the rarity of rain.
Feeling the wind on his back
he gathers desert and rising moon,
tribal chants just audible
in the cocoon of restless aridity.
One day soon black crow
will fly him across the ancient fault lines,
bedrock and quartz will render a tombstone
for the husk he leaves behind.