By Jill McCabe Johnson
And if I loved you, I could say, stay with me.
Istvan Laszlo Geher
Another day in a city of days where the sun doles light, and work numbs like a jigger of gray, gray as the sidewalk where we walk. Where maple leaves filter brightness in metered doses of green. And if a crow lay motionless but for the tremor of her wings, would we not curb our wretchedness, like the crow’s mate in the branches above us, who protects his beloved from the early grief in his call? But no, the crow in the tree cries simply, stay with me, and our sidewalk crow, crippled and scarred, answers, stay.
© Jill McCabe Johnson