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.
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