When Crane asked about the carcass, Crow, with a beak-full of flesh, said:

without fear,
the blood will only
dull in refuge, it was never
about dragon’s fire, burning
all the realms of fantasy in a riotous
tummult of panic and politics, with which
they flood the streets, or gather up their
waterbearers to dance the
heavens down, or call
the clerics, call
the wizards
to smite
ancient evil
the sky

Crane turned from Crow,
and replied, what of the cold
mountains that shape the wind
to bring you to your feast,
would they not look upon
your valley
in disgust?

Why should they,
rejoined Crow,
it is within their stones and fissures
that my quarry breeds in number against
the elements.

© Emerys Watchel, 2015 All rights reserved.


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