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.