Oak, Ash, and Crow

Rebecca Buchanan

Oak, Ash, and Crow


  1. i know that the trees move


i am the last

in the last house

on the last street

in the last city

fallen to oak and ash and thorn


when i look away

they lift their roots

digging furrows deep into earth

exposing burrows

coiling worms

labyrinths of ants


by day

crows caw

from their restless branches



by night

owls watch

wild-eyed and silent

they know my fate


i am the last


the trees are coming



  1. The Tales of Corvids


corvids are collectors

you know

baubles and bits

and shiny things

that match the gleam

of their ebony eyes


they collect other things

stories mostly


owls may be wise

but it’s the corvids who know

the tales of old


they remember

the towers of glass and steel

and the canyons

and the tiny patches of green

where people would throw them

bits of bread and beads


they remember

when the people went away

the rushing winds

and the reborn rivers

wearing away the glass and steel


they made nests inside those crumbling towers

pulled threads and buttons and cufflinks

and built treasure piles for themselves

and their greedy chicks


and told them tales

of the noisy world

now grown quiet and green


Rebecca Buchanan is the editor of the Pagan literary ezine, Eternal Haunted Summer. She has been previously published in Abyss and Apex, Eye to the Telescope, Faerie Magazine, Polu Texni, Silver Blade, Star*Line, and other venues.

Editor’s Notes: An apocalypse picture of a surreal tree-like structure (Pixabay) is combined with a crow silhouette for this ominous 2-part poem.

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