Let’s not think too much. Let’s not think of why the sky makes waves or crashes down in spray on all the roofing tops, the makeshift mops that our eye sops up with all the flailing floes beside our glacial coves. It’s not night outside, there’s no threat, no whetted knife to rend our end. No clover dove, no brittle bend. In a spiting dusk, there’s a trimming tree spitting musk. Its branches barer than the future bleaks. Let’s not think too much. The crows have performed their plays of thought. They call out in rhapsic caws, their claws grasping wheated blight and clinquant clay. They come from corners, round and white, argyle beaks gripped by cans. They gargoyle atop the tree and give it guarded leaves. Faces torn by darning scraps, they come and give. The new arms grow from where the old limbs fell: metal hands sleeved in cloth. The crows have come. Let’s not think too much. The crows have come, and they are building back the tree they loved.