slow whispers

Fog arrives with the fleeting sun
as a tempest of slow whispers.
Concrete lamp posts brace the mist,
gold bulbs pop the tick of the clock,
as a duty of light for the unfamiliar.

Far enough from the bay,
late crows circle and roost,
caw old friends to warm feathers,
gold eyes, black or brown,
beaks and squawks embrace
along the rank of the elders
and chat the happenstance.

Day is at its always end
open parenthesis to the present;
never future or memory’s past
only hard scrabble hunger
and the absence of fear,
to sleep through the night
and never dream of death.

Quiet, quiet, the rustle
fades into the scenery.
I watch and listen, quiet,
will my elders speak?
Will their whispers in the fog
banish the waking fear,
details in between (the future
and memories of the past).
Only the crows will visit Elysium,
deaf to what my elders never say.

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