We were living too far
from town to hear the church
bells announce a new hour,
a wedding, a fire.

The wood frame nailed
together and unseen
within the walls creaked
prophecies in a tongue
guttural and cruel
every windy night.

Remaining mute,
the foundation settled
beneath us both,
and I never
thought to ask.

Young ravens perched
in the scrub pine
down the hill
called out our end
each morning.

That is, we were living
the way a dried branch held
loosely over hidden water
shudders and yearns.

This poem first appeared in The Storms (Issue 2)