winter crow

The sky falls apart at day’s end,

between the scattered branches and

inconspicuous clouds entangling 

the bitter winter blue, the cold

bite of bitter winds and 

the portents of the gathering 

storm lift these black wings

above the lit windows and

emptying streets. The crow on high 

taking one last turn,

calling its kin towards tonight’s 

roost, whatever home they make

at the last edge of daylight as

December closes dark all around.

Riding the drift of wind and 

the press of feathers above

all the driven stories and 

transitory architecture, its throat 

emptied over rooftop and 

tree crown, the enduring sign

that the world works

on a different schedule,

moved by black wings and

honorable appetites above

strewn tinsel and cheap plastic lights,

Christmas only different trash.