It can. It does.
The Trabuco crystals underground twist the live
Oak trunks.
Every second a new ionization, instant
Isomerization
In the piezo-electric body
Effervescing slowly
All around, so we all rise to transitional states
In the slowest of fluxes.
A flaxen-maned sorrel echoes her hoof
In the crystalline dirt
Like sounding a watermelon as the crow shows
Anyone who wants to know
The slow let go of codes, something in its voice
Shapes sound,
Moves meaning through the antennae you confuse
With your brain,
It spreads across the whole crow
Like flocks at sunset
Carrying away the hotcha, the sepsis from Tuesday,
The red, white and blue macarons.
The branch is finally bare, with nothing now on it
But crow.
