Aves of Auschwitz
Along Mississippi’s river road,
at the stroke of full moon midnight,
winter’s wind whips
a coven of crows;
midnight-hued ash flakes,
Corvus chorus
cawing
swirling
whirling
fiercely descending,
peppering the ancient ash tree
like so many beastly ornaments -
a spontaneous memorial marking seventy years
since other dust stopped raining over Oświęcim.
Were any trees left in Poland?
Or were all hewn to stoke ovens reducing humanity to slag?
This murder of crows fractures my evening
Robbing the respite of this ordinary drive.
©Susan Schaefer
3/5/15
