Sparse crowds shadowed wet streets,
In an asphyxiation of color.
There was a scent of anise and eucalyptus.
Crows were full of trees.
It was a distant hiss of mistral.
It was a death-rattle of dishes from the Felix,
And blue and white flowers like stars
Littered the corner of West Broadway and Grand.
Rain whispered a cadence and cascade
In theia mania for no one.
Along the city’s stone canyon,
Our silhouettes became Motherwell umbras
From a senescence of nights we had left years ago.
In red pennons,
A few remaining maples
Defended against October’s last siege
All the way to the East village.
At West Broadway and Grand,
The crows were full of trees.