CROW, DEAD
So stark, its legs look bog-preserved
all black sinews, numberable bones:
though its irridescence
of black-blue feathers
might be called even
beautiful.
You hauled your little chair
out through the big window, to stare
as the howe's breath raised
dead wings:
until we saw, and a roadside grave was dug
to which crow was carried on the spade's blade
(the wind still trying)
past the gate on which it had seemed
to wait for us, the green it had paced
imperious of cat or any other threat:
black, aloof, patient as death
and as ugly: until it fell
from mid-flight, and found
a strange allure in stillness; for you
freshly four years old, to sit before
and ponder.
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