Issue > Poetry
Cold Mountain
there was a village on a hill somewhere.
the snow line crept up over its gables year by year.
a steep precipitous drop
to the next village way way down
there in the dank bleating lowlands.
you could follow the path of the stones baked loose by the sun.
the crows
seemed to run some racket up there,
bringing down the dead piece by rancid piece.
you could hear them laughing into their cups of bone.
asked by a stranger where that narrow path led
people in the valley would simply
raise their eyebrows to the heavens
try and shake the shadows out of their hat.
songs rise shadows fall
they would mutter at their panting dogs.
by which they probably meant
spring crawls up the side of the hill like a prayer,
the crow clouds scatter
at the echo of wood shutters clapping.