Previously published in PLINTH
There is a language of crows. Of the order of cards; of the swill and spit left in a teacup; of misplaced objects and raps on the table. Prophecy in crooked handwriting. In sticks rattled and cast, in coins. In the shapes found in the ashes of the dead. In the burning of sage or figs, wax dripping into water, the shape of the clouds, in second glances, in the ravings of lunatics. A language written in the erratic movements of dumb beasts or in the spill of their organs. A language of birthmarks, stars, palms, pendulums, dice, burning straw, dreams. Of visions from divine vapors.
