An old strand of caterpillar silk at the wood’s edge shimmers in the sun. A crow keeps saying something urgent in four syllables.



    It must go back to more magical times,
    when the sun rises like a fiery blossom
    over the ridge, and a lone crow croaks
    its monotone: kah-kah-kah-kah! would
    be the one lingering note, a sad refrain
    of awe and reverence for the sun god
    cut down since to a constantly ho-hum
    yo-yo motion over ridges, lakes, or bays,
    it must now be invisible like the wild
    dandelion cut wantonly off manicured
    lawns, even its shimmer on gossamer
    silkworm strands glistening on twigs
    attracts longer glances than metaphors
    that have lost their lustre in the hands
    of some inept moulder of words, crystal
    jars that could have held those sunrays
    at a standstill and lit the dark hallways
    that needed to warm-over the frigid
    goodbyes of lovers who have loved and
    lost, but know that mornings are new
    days with new sunrises at the wood’s edge.

    The crow on the branch must know a more
    urgent omen, it cackles its warning quite
    like the staccato of a grumpy tetrameter,
    as if it were demanding an answer to its
    question: What if the sun does not rise again?
    Or another: When will the sun not rise again?

    —Albert B. Casuga

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