Silent Vigils

Late in the afternoon of this strange summer
That somehow belongs to me,
A circle of crows lights on a hay bail
Mere feet from their fallen brother,
One of his wings spread on the shoulder
Of the road that takes me home.
It is always the silent vigils that I notice.

I am at odd angles with this world,
Afraid of revolving hotel doors,
Never sure how to enter anywhere.
Life is a series of scenes that I happen upon,
Like the lights rising on a theater set
And I, in the dark, am moved
Only by the strange shared silence.