What is it
about a black crow in flight
that makes it appear so much larger
against morning-pale clouds
than it really must be?
Banging frost from his feathers
next to mirrored, fresh-air puddles
(last night's rain)
or
cawing, complaining, chattering
on a lamppost spire
he is
a foreigner, protruberance into our world.
Loud and timid novelty,
hopping, scratching, pecking thing
he is
patient and
angry and watchful,
but
careening, each feather madly spread, he is
intense wraith-
inscrutable purpose and heaviness.
Wings folded in to
wheel and dive, he is
death's own nature-
the terrifying maw.
