I remember driving home one night from an uncomfortable situation. Slowing for potholes and narrow bailey bridges on the rough gravel roads. Tunnelling through black cliffs, stars and spruce silhouettes. Our daughter, maybe four at the time, sleeping baby brother on the backseat beside her. She said, “I wanted to leave that place with my whole body.”
Crow’s change was a fray
on the pattern’s edge.
Habit’s well worn groove hauled him back.
Reeled him down through the buzz
and racket in his head.
I found him, carried him into the woods
and placed him on a fallen tree.
A pile of black feathers on a rotting log.