Listen to Henri Cole reading this poem. The terrible glorious crows are convening again, swooping into the area with triumphant caws, plunging with demon black wings from utility poles, kicking and pecking a neighbor's kittens. Wearing the plaid shirt that was my father's plaid shirt, I throw a tarp over a pile of clear pink hemorrhaging garbage bags. See a crow, take three steps back. Three crows cried, someone has died. Go home, Crows! I holler, My black-lipped daddy is gone. Poor crows, perplexing as men, nobody is listening to their tired signals, not even the mother, with blue drooping breast, nursing a newborn under a red maple with a nest.
TODAY IN SLATE
The Ebola Story
How our minds build narratives out of disaster.
The Budget Disaster That Completely Sabotaged the WHO’s Response to Ebola
PowerPoint Is the Worst, and Now It’s the Latest Way to Hack Into Your Computer
The Shooting Tragedies That Forged Canada’s Gun Politics
A Highly Unscientific Ranking of Crazy-Old German Beers
Welcome to 13th Grade!
Some high schools are offering a fifth year. That’s a great idea.
The Actual World
“Mount Thoreau” and the naming of things in the wilderness.