The gray of November
settled into the folds of the hills,
tamping down brightly colored leaves
into fog and dark mists.

Crows cried out in greeting
when your footsteps were heard-
black feathered messengers-
oracles of your return.

As in a dream,
their cries echo across the hillside,
shouting your name
until I saw your face
and I knew.

Keepers of tales and omens,
tricksters and thieves,
the crows stole my heart
tying it in the old dead hickory
to wave and tatter
in the wind.