Crow

I watched a crow mattocking the soil

grubbing solo

Monkish crow

Nodding prayers

seeing me sideways with a winter dark eye.

Shoulder rolling crow

I could see him in a sawdust bar

droll

or high in an airy chapel

caw caw calling

then tumbling, free falling.

Or printed darkly to the sky

when light thickens

homing.

Beauty is strange.

Strangely beautiful is the crow.