Hieroglyphs of the Gods

If I stare at the blank page long enough Words will appear, Words written in black ink, not mollified. The words will grow together Like grass forming a sod. Then, as if on cue, Spoons dance, And horseshoes have wings. A very short story would be the prime motive, A murder of crows, perhaps. And perhaps not. Sometimes, the mud crawls together like glue. It seals the burial of the crows. It speaks in a slow language. To interpret the hieroglyphs of the gods Would be worthy. The phone rings: It is Kathmandu, dispirited. Out of Montana a horn blows, And the mountains sing. The magpies are summoned to a conference They will divide the spoils. Their calls resound On the north face of a mountain.