Sweet kid, what is this world we're giving you?

Smoldering and fascist with no mother

Are you dreaming about a crow?

In the middle of November we went back into the woods right after breakfast to see if we could see this past August's forest fire zone on the hill above the lake, the sky was low and the wind cold, the trail was closed

At the barricade, I stood listening

In my backpack you were sleeping with her hat pulled low

All the usual birds were gone or freezing

It was all silent except the sound of one crow following us as we wove through the cedar grove

I walked and you bobbed and dozed, sweet kid

We were watched and followed and I thought of Geneviève

Sweet kid, I heard you murmur in your sleep

"Crow," you said

"Crow," and I asked

"Are you dreaming about a crow?"

And there she was