I Don’t Know What the Crows Are Saying
Ann Finkbeiner
It’s spring, I think it’s spring, yes really, it’s spring, and I have to stop myself from writing about juiced-up kids and hormonal robins and the flourishing minor bulbs, all sproinging all over the place like little fireworks. It’s true that they’re the incarnation of spring but I’ve written and written about them and you don’t need to hear it all again. I was thinking about what else to write about, out on my walk in the morning, and the crows from one patch of trees were crossing the sky to.