by Mary Katherine Creel

I need a mystic to interpret
this morning’s conversation

between two crows—a series
of coos and clicks, I swear,

sounds like love. I need a new
word for grief after seeing

a barred owl on the highway,
the lift of feathers in the wake

of every passing car, as if
the joy of flight is a memory

that cannot be undone. I want
to discover the love language of

my ancestors, feel the pull
of a place like swallows in winter

once believed to be asleep in
the bed of a river, only to disappear

by the light of a Hunter’s Moon.
I want you to tell me in birdsong,

soft churs and chatters,
what it feels like to be home.

Photo by Erik Karits via Pexels