Collaborative Animation with Poet Travis Nichols for Chicago's Artist Month
His thin story happened then while coat and pant-cuffs flapped around a step-father and half-sister. The memories true or not against him seem to be turning to steam, as I turned, all the while thinking of chewing out alone eventually through the ghostly meats. Just as I, on the side of his index, opted to drift into the present and finger for a while the sleeping back of hoping, of folding his hands with my present fingers around the crows,vultures, goldfinches and hawks. There are woodpeckers, robins, bluebirds and cardinals, but nothing is as lovely as a crow cawing, “off the overhang around the parking lot,a missed opportunity walks, stopping in every subdivision to hear a muffed note.” A murder of crows. Multiple murders of crows in the budding trees waiting to send the
lilac sky to black, or every once in a while to bend remembrance gone on at the waist into coughing too long into the night. Up and down the parking lot when no one cares what any one crow is apparently talking to, everyone gets talked about as long as everyone under the crow-steamed sky stays put.