In my brain is a tree.
Its trunk is the brain stem,
its leaves are thoughts, a myriad of them,
many that look the same.
Its roots spread out along the byways
to the very edges of me where they take in
air and sunshine and sustenance.
The trunk divides in two, one leader
in each half of my brain, and in each,
amid the complications of branches is a crow.
Now, you may not recognise the voice of a crow
as song because they’ve had a bad wrap,
but they sing of sunshine and wings, grubs,
the dank delicious flesh of the freshly dead,
and they sing of love and babies, just like we all do.
And what they sing with, is air, like the air
on the intricate surface of our skin
or in each alveoli of our lungs,
the air that courses through
all of those byways of brain and body,
and trunk and leaves.
No wonder they sing. Wouldn’t you?