A crow beats on the updraft over a scragged hawthorn, rocked but plunging on. A stick of Paras, bristling with nerves, coughs and boots forward along the sheugh. Long after the soldiers have gone, the crows will settle home. Since Newry, choppers have been battling back and forth across the track. These trains are overheated, sweat stings in my underslept eyes; I'd rather the crows' lift and pluck than to be here, rocked to the quick, driving on Derry. I often wish, my love, that we were birds, the wide domains of Ireland at our turn and fall, the world's wind our natural element - rain, ice, hail or sun our gods, the tall pines our greenwhip lightning rods. Tonight there's a horned moon and Venus trailing low over the Waterside. Tonight let me fold you in my wings, pray nobody's killed in dark of country or town. We'll settle the long night in another of our beds, watch what the morning brings.
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5/22/2025 1:45:38 PM # 1.0.0