and argue indoors
about where
in the world our
language comes from,
anesthetizing daggers
of subzero sun
spear the black
commas of crows
on the horizon,
causing them to gleam
in the winter light
like flecks
of sleek
obsidian and onyx
as their capering arcs
conjure wild sigils
which dare us to braid them
into something
like intention.
