he sits on a frail footstool

shredding tufts of grass

his back an arc of grief

great big crows swoop from fir boughs onto his lawn

he's oblivious of them and they're indifferent to him

the holly bush scratches my arm

i turn to see who it was knowing it was holly

he's shaking and tearing 

i've never seen this before

i'm almost gleeful, slightly reverent,

i savor it

i think of the juicy blue worms 

the crows pull from his lawn

and think of the blue veins pulsing in his arms

as he pulls at tufts of dry grass

later when i'm looking at cicada cases on the bark of the oak tree

i can't recall anything he said