Crowsong

There are words that exist only in crow language, that we do not have English translations for. Words for the way that the light sits on the water and how much it looks like our silver coins, tossed into wishing wells. Words for the sun in the branches, and the way that the shimmering brightness dances, and the green looks like coloured glass. Words for the rain and how it smells like clean mud, and salt, and worm hearts. There is a word spoken only from the throats of crows for the riches of autumn, the russet and the sage, the amber, and the soot. The way that the leaves turn to golden dragon scales at the mouth of morning. The forest floor, like applecake, covered in heavy fruit and brown sugar. The way that the shadows come alive, and the whole world looks like its being viewed by torchlight. The foliage like molten honey, falling like Icarus to the earth below. That word is the colour of your eyes, and the raging bonfires that I see within them when you say my name.