Door

Door

A crow has murder on its mind.
Black thoughts before the rain.

Leaves eddy. Acorns scatter.
Light flutters its flimsy blanket.

Mice and voles know the shadow,
grow still and large as boulders.

The scene refracts, bends, begins
to bleed and you want to go

into it, turn the day backward
with your deft hand, good intentions.

Your heart's a small animal, desire
a door into the field.