Crow light: I call it that at dawn when one wing, then this other, bursts in flame, catching the sun's rising. The stupid bird, dipping his hunk of bread into the water, doesn't know the Mississippi is my friend: it disgorges in the gulf the frozen states I came from. Mississippi! She was a grade school spelling word in Detroit for me. I spelled well. Now, forty years later I jog beside her interchange of gold and silver lustres, always too much in love with any surface of the world. But the crow: I know it's not the same bird morning after morning. Still, the dipping of his beak into this water, softening a breakfast for his gullet demanding, like mine, daily satisfactions lets me pretend every day's the same. On one chunk of that bread some day up ahead my last day is written, clear as the printing on my birth certificate on file in Michigan. Crows dip their bread. Daily, I run for breath, hoping to extend my distance, even a little. The Mississippi muddies, clears, according to the factories up North, the local, snarled measures against its dying. Slowly, even the river is passing from us while I run.
Peter CooleyCrow light: I call it that at dawn when one wing, then this other, bursts in flame, catching the sun’s rising. The stupid bird, dipping his hunk of bread into the water, doesn’t know the Mississippi is my friend: it disgorges in the gulf the frozen states I came from. Mississippi! She was a grade school spelling word in Detroit for me. I spelled well. Now, forty years later I jog beside her interchange of gold and silver lustres, always too much in love with any surface of the world. But the crow: I know it’s not the same bird morning after morning. Still, the dipping of his beak into this water, softening a breakfast for his gullet demanding, like mine, daily satisfactions lets me pretend every day’s the same. On one chunk of that bread some day up ahead my last day is written, clear as the printing on my birth certificate on file in Michigan. Crows dip their bread. Daily, I run for breath, hoping to extend my distance, even a little. The Mississippi muddies, clears, according to the factories up North, the local, snarled measures against its dying. Slowly, even the river is passing from us while I run.
Peter Cooley