black olives

There is a man, yelling.

It is the day after the world trade centre ate up some aeroplanes and then disappeared upon itself.

We are all afraid, too afraid to speak of it, silent in front of our televisions, stunned.

Not this man in the street. He holds his fists up to the sky, his cavernous, toothless mouth yelling but making no sound.

The pony does not see him as we pass by.

I do.

Another man appears, rushing off the footpath to collect him, take him to safety.

The wheels of my car roll round and round.

There are still the birds. In the deafness of the morning their song pierces through, sharp spring morning songs.

Two ravens fly parallel to each other.


The day after the day after the world trade centre ate up some aeroplanes and then disappeared upon itself I stand in the morning sun, watching a raven pick away at a brick wall. It pulls something out that looks like a black olive.
I don’t like olives so the raven is welcome to it, though I doubt that’s what it is.

And although flying planes into buildings once seemed unimaginable, after what has happened to the world perhaps it is now feasible to believe that crows would store olives in walls.