Black Crowes In the Snow

Is there a difference In January Between a crow And his shadow? Lurching in flight, so slow And low Threading The snow-glued birch trees That stand, Wound in wind Like barber shop poles, The crow’s Shadow Glancing The pearly floor Below As oily-black As his own feathers Ruffled upon his back, Married Like a yoyo To the unusual sun Strung To the Earth, Landing Upon himself, Claw To neck As if he was his own prey Cheek to cheek In black dance, Uniting Like a charred spoon Scooped Into the cream of the snow In search of berries Buried At the bottom of the bowl Then Up The crow Separates Again Skating above and upon The glimmering winter forest floor, The real bird, His beak, Stained red from is juicy feast.