Cold Bullets Press

Understand, I’ll slip quietly
away from the noisy crowd
when I see the pale
stars rising, blooming, over the oaks.

I’ll pursue solitary pathways
through the pale twilit meadows,
with only this one dream:
You come too.

—Rainer Maria Rilke

Last night I dreamed a crow flew into my room.

I was sitting at my desk, doing homework. I hear this noise and look over.  There he is, this crow just walking around my room on his little legs, claws tapping against the laminate floor.  I stand up and inch towards the door.  He looks at me with a glassy stare, then in one fell swoop he flies straight towards the sliding-glass door.  The door was only open by a crack and he flew right into the glass.  He bounced back and fell to the floor, legs sticking in the air. I thought he was dead.  I went to get a broom and a shovel, but when I came back, he was gone.