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Here and Then
By Carla Panciera
© 2006Portland Review Literary Journal

At the edge of the woods today,

the smell of something dead rose,

vanished (in its place: wet leaves,

exhaust, old water), and returned.

Two crows, like one crow

and its shadow, flew low over grass.

Yellow-green and rust, the canopy budded.

Bare branches of trees announced

trunk tunnels of rot. Dark morning heralded

another day’s turn with rain.

Some days begin like this then veer off course.

Happiness arrives, a surprise guest,

but without the fanfare, takes a seat

and assumes the role, at least for now,

of frequent visitor.

Other days, crows strut yellow-eyed

around the furred edges of a clearing.

They open wings, the true pair

and the mimic’s, and coast close to earth

avoiding a sky eager to unburden itself.

Up from forest floor, the stench

of decomposing drifts, vivid one moment,

gone the next, as if the rot itself breathes

in and out, in and out,

so close, it is as arresting

as the sudden appearance of happiness

and nearly as foreboding.