She’s a wise woman,
from the northern land of volcanoes —
tells me she can understand
the language of crows, their movements;
knows what it means
when they follow me like that
      as we leave the Black Sea.
Not always good.

‘Now look, they’re not coming at you head on
but at an angle, from the side
               diagonally —
watch the slant of their dive.

So there’s hope,’ she says —
‘you’ll see your mother again
               before she dies.’