Another Offering

The mountains won't cry, The sky is only the sky, and it - Will not change its course, for anyone; The cold, scouring wind has no sympathy: Seemingly impossibly adept, The huge, speckled bird swings down - From the dark, snow-swept sky, From the looming, purple mountains. The bird masterfully hovers for a moment, Buffeted this way and that by the wind; Changes course mid air, Sheer poetry in motion, Utter aerial ballet, Then splatters the gilded temple's dome With its droppings.