We think these crows are black moons.
Are visible in the sense that a nomad
is always moving off, that the pale skull
of a woodchuck half-buried in a field
is companionless. We want our sorrow
to navigate the sky on great wings,
want our longing to lift itself with fatalistic
resolve above the river. These hours
come to us like strays, speak to us
like crows staggering in the wind, buffeted
and unforgiven. Or then one crow shudders
out of air and lands before us, folding its cloak
of wings, calling with a black tongue,
and we are powerless before it.