There's a Piece of Paper in Your Hair

There's a Piece of Paper in Your Hair

It looks like a moth or tiny egg,
and I leave it there, let it nest.
In a hickory chair, you watch the road
where a hundred cars pass every hour or so.

Together, we are two crows clipped onto traffic
light wire, solid as totems, swayed only by itches
or short winds through our feathers. Hitchcock
would be pleased to see us in this evening roost,
two black bells hung against a backdrop of blue.
We lend an eerie scene of stillness and silence
with small undergrowths like malignant cancer.

Finally, I can’t take it anymore. I pluck the egg
from your hair and show it to you, the only white
spot in this squared-off scene. With a breeze
you wisp it from my fingers. It floats to the cars below,
gets lost in headlights and grounded gravel.

We look at each other, say nothing. Just sit,
proud for having flung the first snow, even if
it was only paper. Somebody must have seen the fall,
pointed up and thought: either it’s snowing
or that bird just took a small shit.

Our chests bloom, and we go home.