It's Still Life

Crow

It’s out there in the trees,
under the wilt of summer heat,
and it’s a gnawing whistle,
a tinnitus ring. Apart and
pitched. The craw tone
of a string plucked, broken
threads falling into echoes
for crushing under wheels.
And then it was lost,
like words never
committed to print.
I once heard a bird
that sounded just like that.
Just the once.
And never again.

Sunday Whirl #304 words: whistle, touch, wheel, word, gnaws, ring, prints, apart, broken, echo, thread, fall