Friday, June 21, 2013


One crow sits
on the left arm of the cross
that tops the steeple at the end of the street.
The bird spreads its wings and plummets
into the trees.

Two crows perch on the left arm
of the cross. Early dusk. Though fitted
with bulbs, the cross is rarely lit. A wire lick
of neon flame curls from its base, the cleansing fire
of redemption, or the ever-present
threat of hell? The two crows dive
simultaneously into the leaves, twin shadows
swallowed by the green.

The sun has died. The streetlamps weakly try
to spread its teachings. All the birds
are settled into their roosts, unseen.
The cross a faint gray kite floating
so small against the black wings of the night.

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