The Language of Crows

There are crows everywhere here in Ialoveni. They circle every evening and night, and they make me think of magical things. When I was young in Japan I read a story about a little boy that turned into a crow. I have a children's book now in both Romanian and English called, "The Crow King." They have always been birds of mystery, and they are more so here in Moldova. Sometimes I think I'm the only one who can see them as the rest of the people around me seem to ignore them completely.

By the way, Moldovans have a saying, "Don't be a white crow."

The Language of Crows

Crows gather

in the white-barked birch --

strange dark leaves

that absorb the last rays of

November sun.

My mind is cloudy

with crows.

They fly in clusters

dotting the sky

like the musical notes

to some half-forgotten tune.

 

A Moldovan Moon

They grumble and curse --

old men discontented

with life,

raucously calling each other

crude names.

I keep listening,

wondering when

I will begin to understand

their cryptic code

of used-to-bes

and might-have-beens

 

Theirs is a language of vagary

and head bobbing;

their vocabulary

is of the vernacular.

 

Only their piercing

black-pearl eyes

describe how they really feel

as the light dies

and they sing the birth of the

waxy November moon.