by Mike Wilson

Now is our season of crows, landing in twos and fours, shiny ebony feathers strutting on grief-stricken earth, silhouetted in decaying light. Crows have brain-to-body ratios the same as chimpanzees, neuronal density surpassing primates, but the emotional body of a dinosaur, the why and how presidents perch on grand pianos of truthless might. Crows harvest the young of songbirds – in a season of crows, no nest knows rest – and peck the eyes of reason in the season of reason’s ebb. Their canyon throats caw and caw about a baby found abandoned in a plastic bag.

Mike Wilson’s work has appeared in many magazines and in his book, Arranging Deck Chairs on the Titanic. His awards include the League of Minnesota Poets Award, the Maine Poets Society Award, and the Chaffin/Kash Prize of the Kentucky State Poetry Society. He lives in Lexington, Kentucky (US).