Losing Faith (and other past times)

Alex Jones

From my bedroom window

I follow glimpses of a world

much different than the one I sleepwalk through

most mornings.

Crows on desolate branches

don’ think of themselves as

doom or death

but merely huddle against autumn.

They don’t see themselves as omens of anything — I lie here feeling silly for all of us.

They seem to know what they’re doing

where they’re going

and where they want to be —

now landing on a wire with

eight hundred and seventy four

of their closest chums, leaving me to wonder

whether this pattern was discussed in the huddle

or whether spontaneity drives this dance.

I see, through the narrow space where the curtain comes short

crooked, boney silhouettes

against the morning almost-light