wished raze before the air horns and arthritic engines and hand-driven hammers and barking and sawing and screaming and stomping that serves as the soundtrack to all of my days, before there was much of anything at all, i listened to a murder of crows making music out of coded messages and morning's murk. and i wished to be a bird, if only to live for a moment in the language of their leaving. 261006 what's it to you? who go blather from