Wheatfield with crows
There are crows that gather
under the blue-black horizon,
opening like a bruise
into an empty sky.
The moon rises
or the sun sets-
The whisper of wings
breathes life into night.
Along the track
furrowed, turned
the Earth that covers boots with dust
lies dormant
waiting for rain.
Cartwheels creak
a tired ox pulls
sheaves of wheat
or ears of corn.
The crops-
knee-high,
waist-high,
elbow-high,
sway listlessly.
Separated from stems
in an endless cycle-
harvest bounties baked
salted, pickled, dried,
for the lean winter
which eats human flesh
from the bone.
The crows call to one another,
harsh, belligerent.
They hop and rise as one,
vague outlines overhead
as the wheels turn,
catching on a stone.
The cart puller
does not stop-
he’s looking at his feet
and at the cracks and furrows and ridges-
down instead of up.
He picks his steps,
only the snorts of his beast
break the dusk
of a yawning canvas sky
as the crow’s calls fade,
carried on their wings.
Anna Translates 