Crows are black. The dusk envelopes and I feel feathers pass my head. You are leaving and through the window, I watch wingbeats above your car. Heavenly ripple, at night, the crows wait for your absence. When they call to me, I hear the geometry of space, a sky of four corners. I believe they parcel their time among the trees and on the ground, silently observing humanity, its coming and goings. Nature left the loudest bird to tend us, scold us, remind us of the everheart below the soil. I lay on the rocks to the south. It is morning and I have seen my sisters overhead. What I cannot determine is where we meet, where I draw down my soul and greet the crows by name.