Open the door.
Step outside.
Underfoot,
limestone and
concrete,
cool, gritty.
Look left,
past the railing;
a crow sails –
wings fanned –
from the great
Norway spruce.
Down
down
down.
Black feathers
finger,
catch,
disperse,
and
scatter light.
Wings serve
as rudder and
brakes;
he curls through
the air and
lands
on the bottom-
most step.
Arrived, he waits –
wings folded,
body
contracted,
compacted,
prepared
to
launch
for safety.
Dark eyes aglitter
beneath corvid
brow;
wedge
of soot-black bill
lifts.
Crow – guide;
harbinger;
messenger;
omens
safely tucked
underwing.
Where have you
been?
For years,
you called me
to this very
door;
I fed you;
watched you
strut
about the green-
grass yard,
unafraid.
Five years
absent;
the duration
of his
passing.
I hear your
call.
Deliver
your message –
I am
ready.
— C.Birde, 5/19
2 Comments
Beautiful. Your poetry is so moving!
Thank you, Caprice — your praise means a great deal to me! ❤️