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When the dawn is large enough
you will go out into that stiff blue and find a cat's paw
in the bird bath, a gift from the crow to morning.
There was a moment last night when you started walking
the iron rail in your bare feet on the bridge above the river
and you believed you wouldn't fall. Now, this morning,
you shake so badly you can't hold the glass,
lowering your face to it, your tongue
a tick grey muscle trying to drown.
Outside, mosquito larvae dance
among the claws and the little red cords
where the birds come to bathe. Old crow,
I will come as soon as I can.

These are the shapes he wants, the map of
the wilderness he searches in, the driftwood
he finds shaped into beasts
that are his dreams, the broken
weathered to reemblance by some wind
inside his mind, the imagined mountain
in the stone he climbs,
the peace he feels before descent.