Follow the ravens who gather
in the weeping willows.
Silent and starving
near the bank. Dusk curls at
your feet. You watch the busy
hands of trees
pointing toward the river, divided
by an island. A dead ash stands
like a bone knife
Plunged into its chest. Black
swans swimming in it's stomach.
You whisper a prayer for the dying.
River bleeds over stone, smoothes
away rough edges. While the
moon perches on edge of some
unseen horizon.  You wonder if
stars seek a sense of place. Step
over things as not to invade shadows.
You are certain they know the river
is bleeding. Know that you are the
one story that began out of place.