Softly lift the tools of your secret witching.
Make no noise your mothers will hear, no telltale
scrape of knife on stone; keep your setup silent.
Answer no questions.

Birds will sing these songs with you–meet them, trill for
cry. Then, under daybreak blue morning quiet,
hand your tools to birds. See how quickly crows learn
witching with women.

Knives in birds' claws, knives scraping sharp-edged secrets–
feel the heavy pleasure of being tied to
crows, who know more witchcraft than humans; still they
wait for us, cackling.

Cast your spells in whistles, in lines cut deep in
wood, in feathers taken from willing birds, who,
loyal comrades, hide these small witchings, singing.
Birdsong keeps secrets.

Day comes swiftly, wakes all the sleeping, hungry,
bringing pains and mundane cares. Put your tools in
safer places. Crows with your knives, if seen, are
dangerous. Thank them.

© 2025 Devin Miller