One Poem by Dan A Cardoza


In my back yard, tree branches guiro like rusty hinges.
Onyx eyes pepper limbs like worry beads. My
Austrian Black Pine is bent from the wind. My crows
chatter, crackle, and invent sound, pick stiff locks.

Maybe from the redundancy of fables, the woods this
day seem obligated to keep secrets, even the ones they
don’t already know. But a crow on a branch is part
pry bar, if I enter, they’ll know all.

A Nor’easter is bluing its face. The weather channel is
forecasting it so. Frenzied rail-road track feet claw my
roof, tell me so.

To the chorus they bring tempo, dark blood in the veins of the
heart of the forest. Their smudged flight
in darkening skies, alibis.

You can choose to worship them, as they prefer. You
may want to reconsider. If they were bred into the
genetics of Canis familiaris, they’d be butcher’s dogs
and alley wise, bartering tricks for knifed clean ham
hocks, and bloody pig knuckles.

They keep lies much better than secrets, there’s no
question. Be cautious in befriending. Let’s be honest,
if God granted darker prayers, we’d be as
blind as pecked sparrow eyes.


Dan has a MS Degree in Education from UC, Sacramento, Calif. He is the author of four poetry chapbooks, and a new book of flash fiction, Second Stories.

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