hill of the crow

automobiles travel on dirty nights,
thread through curves 
on whitewall tires
in a glove box, road maps and whiskey
conceal a .38 handgun
coal miners 1:00 before twelve o’clock
in hidden seams, below
mud and earth
mutinous winds take over moored ships
in a secluded harbor
carry hurricane lanterns, one if by land
two if by sea
to find their way
dog packs look for alley cats
one beats a can lid 
with a stick, this old man
in a shade drawn house, lovers,
in another, pot and pans
fly through the air with trapeze skill
small children in bed dreaming of sandboxes,
sand by a creek bed, footless
footless gravel kicked as if by a stubborn mule,
chrome dodge grill to reach a summit
wipers tasting the morning dew,
inside, he, a bit nervous
beads of sweat rolling on his forehead,
but the wipers can’t touch
he says to himself, “has to be done”
sun pulling up a shade on a dirty night,
shadows slide under back alley
door entrances
in a greasy spoon, ‘c’ note slides under
a palm
turns the cheek
gravel and dust whitewash cool air 
as car brakes carve out a name
a .38 revolver gets a once over.
man in a black suit
black hat
sunglasses, awaits
in backyards, children play with
imaginary guns
engine sound approaching, 2 shots,
awakes a sleepless morning
windshield cracks like skate ice,
off a ravine it tumbles over,
inside, himself, his past
on a stone, a lone black feathered crow,
Copyright © 05/08/2013 Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®

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