The tree branches reaching
in tunnel above my head
come alive
echoing voices, persistent,
scold so loudly

I stop

unable to move.
And the dog stops, too,
panting, sitting.

They are crows calling
--maybe six or eight of them--
calling, cawing
like a symphony of locusts
never letting up
making me dizzy.

And I begin to rise
from my body
--right there on the road by my house--
to walk out of the crown of my head,
corkscrewing upward
into the sound
grabbing the white hands that reach for me
I am lifted into the arms of the air
with the ease of a parent
lifting her child from the cradle.

I swoon in the embrace
I draw myself nearer, closer,
pressing the hands that hold me
to my heart, my throat,
wanting more. . .

I hear the crows again.
They say, "Be patient.
Wait.
You have much work still to do."
And I settle like a balloon
back into my body
--right there on the road by my house.

The crows flap away.
The dog rises and comes to my side,
wagging his tail.

All poems copyrighted by the author, Tracey Besmark 1997©