frear park

it's march and cabin fever is getting to me. i've become sluggish and flabby, too tired and cold to work my body. i can't remember the last time i bent over and touched my own feet. wintertime self has become complacent in my cup, agog in my grog, ruddy-cheeked with the flushes of lushes. i wheeze when i breathe, and i look awkwardly upon my chubby child-like body that's lost the attractive edges of my sex. 

yesterday while the sun was approaching its magic hour, i grabbed my coat and ran out the door like an escaped prisoner. i couldn't stop or look back, lest my laziness catch up with me and i lose my gumption. a momentary lightness overcame me while i strode down the sparkling wet sidewalks; i was finding the stride i'd lost long ago. 

up ahead the hills of frear park were awash in a golden glow, and as i treaded across, my shadow stretched long and lean against the green. the fecund earth was moist and ready, full of holes the earthworms pushed up. mother's alveoli. the air, so cold it hurts a little, but so fresh, my lungs quiver and burst with excitement. 

on top of the hill, leaning on a tree, i could see down to the river. the green island bridge with tiny shiny cars rushing across. over there, the smokestacks and steeples of upstate life. the blue mountains surrounding us, my favorite backdrop. i breathed it in, no place i'd rather be than troy. 

i followed a black asphalt trail that is the boundary of where the manicured greens meet the wild bushes and trees. i look down and see one small beaver sitting by a stream. i look up and see two big brown and white geese sailing over my head. i look ahead and see three deer bounding into the thicket. their big white, fluffy tails bouncing behind them as they bounce quietly away. 

i whisper my thanks to the universe and turn my sights to the soggy grass. i leave my brain behind and follow imagination's feet. i am an arctic explorer, i am a lonesome sheep herder, i am a vagabond, i am a runaway, i am a giant crushing fjords under my boots. i am falling into a puddle and laughing. 

the sun is now a fiery orange, and the mountains are growing darker. i find my way back to the trail and set my sights for the traffic of civilized life. now that i've shaken the dust off my soul, time to head back home and set my sights to practical matters. we've all got to eat and clean and talk to people sometime or another, although i'd much rather stay outdoors in the expansive quiet. 

full crow moon

We sped down inky black route 7, unfurling before us unto the hillside dotted with lights. The full yellow moon hung low, kissing shadowy buildings. This March moon, the full crow moon, should be heralding the return of spring, but the air is still full of icy chills and dangerous precipitation. If March comes in like a lion and out like a lamb, this night is shaking its mane and stretching its terrible maw, unready to release time from its clawed paw.

I reached my hand over to his and gripped it tight. His speeding car clings to curves and races through the darkness to deliver us home.

The mysterious feminine gravity of the full black crow moon draws earthworms to wriggle up from below. They release their shells and dive into the dirt that’s just waiting to be churned up. Roots awaken, buds are blinking, waking up after a long slumber.

The caws of the corvus brachyrhynchos, the american crow, echo through empty parks and streets. Their nervous chatter follows unsuspecting pedestrians up and down the alleys and one way streets of Troy. These birds are smart, ever-present, multitudinous and anonymous.

But they know you.

They know your face, habits, and haunts. Their keen eyes cut through your aura and have communicated the secrets you didn't know you had to the murder before you've had time to blink.

corvus ilium

the urban bird

sophisticated stalking

those caws that you heard

corvus ilium,

the trojan crow,

hatch murders above

and brood murders below