Home > Poetry > Crow Song
Laura Paul Watson
Published: Mon Oct 15 2018
Art: Paul TheriaultEver New (detail), 2022, acrylic and found paper on scavenged wood
Crow Song

For all we know, the world ends here. Every bird
turned crow and every crow at the trash can.

One crow begets two. Two crows beget a thousand.

Glass wing. Still eye. Whichever way we turn
is crow. The flapped blacks and blues

of their bodies. The oiled fans of their tails.

We try our voices in a cloud of crow-song.
They come back to us as crow-song.

Everything needs saving. The late song

of the chain saw. The snowpack. The pine.
We who have wrecked the mountain,

we are the rotten and divine.

Black wing, full of grace, the world
is with thee. All our myths

have crumpled to their knees. Tell me,

in the black chapel of these wings, how are we?
How are we made clean?

See what's inside AGNI 88

Laura Paul Watson’s poetry has appeared in The Massachusetts Review, The Cincinnati Review, AGNIPoetry Northwest, and elsewhere. She lives in Pine, Colorado, and works as a general contractor, remodeling homes with her husband in the Denver area. (updated 10/2018)

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