Crow (written 12-14-12)

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.