A murder of crows woke me this morning. I heard them in the back of my dream mind and listened until they pecked at the back door. When I got up and opened the door, they massed in a tree and I stood there in a black slip, my shoulders bare, my ears filled. I might have sprouted wings and flew off, over the hedge, over the tree where they perched on their crow legs. Shush, I said, Shush. You'll drive me to murder. Finally, back in bed there was silence, and I drifted, the bed a boat. At some point the murder flew off, the air was again silent, the sun rose
You need a shotgun, he texted me.
Shine like a sunflower.