Do you hear those crows they are announcing death but the mystery is the death of what? Let’s guess. I’ll say Summer. I’ll say Summer’s body was finally ready to give out & go home & listen to the unnameable birds, birds we will never see nor hear because what are we? I am bones. You are bones too. You are more deliberate than I am here. When you speak I like to listen to you because when you speakit feels like hearing a story about the first time somebody saw the ocean, no matter what you’re saying. Those crows have never seen the ocean & that in itself is its own kind of death, probably. Maybe Summer isn’t dead after all. Maybe Summer has just dug a hole in the dirt somehwere & is ready to lay down for a while & dream of all the things that happen while Summer is gone. Bones turn into trees. We manage to stay warm. Wings disappear.