Black Crow Visits While I Chop Wood

The whack of the axe echoes through the woods

as I cut, split, chop pieces of Doug fir

and oak, pile them crisscross in the old shed.

I wonder how many more years I could

have stacked back in the concrete city,

before the wailing sirens, shootings, swarms

of people drove my depression deeper

into a hole, where booze, speed, self-pity

could not defend my soul in its dark night.   

The black crow startles me, swooping down and

landing on the rusty red wheelbarrow,  

its wings iridescent in the sunlight.

My visitor caws, caws, caws, as if to insist:

I let the Trinity River’s breeze brush my face,

I forget demons of a younger time and place.

Note: This poem appeared as part of "Mash-ups: Where Poetry and Art Collide,"  the hybrid show of 20 poets paired with 20 artists, at the Ink People Center for the Arts in Eureka, California (2020). The photo shown, taken by Robert Adams, was paired with the poem.