Huddled like rabbis in a field
Of dying rye, six standing
Crows scratch a coarse meal
From dust and dirt. No command
Or edict tumbles from flat sky. No
Rain. Skullcaps of slick black
Feathers dip and nod as bow
To cello, the rhythm halfway back
To darkness. The gathered stalks
Are crumpled moths, wan and wasted
By timid clouds that balk
And twist at first blue taste of
Rain. Flow and wet, that covenant
To seep and grow, is crushed to dry
Retreat. The animals’ mute sacrament
Of final feast calls out the sky.
They rock on talons in the ruins, these birds
Like men of duty, men of prayer
Who conjure rivers from dead words
As weak as a promise. Where
Would we be without the harvest
Of grain and glory? The ink-dipped
Corvus flock stopped here to rest
But we are weak and ill-equipped
To save the day.
Euphony Journal 