crow has flown
mid march wide-eyed into winter
against a wall-hard northern wind
at 20 below rides the wooden will of his faith
scratches the small match in his brain on the 49th
lurches into the long drifting prairies
crow crosses the line flapping like a pirate’s flag
ploughs through troughs overrunning with cold
plans to goad the weak eager to gauge
the wages of sin in latitudinarian fervour
has answered his calling has given his word
is now ready to give
the world hell where we hunch
for warmth & love flings him
self into it onto a pulpit into a rage
in the sky takes up a post in our presbytery
inside his charcoal gowns gathers
his shoulders grown
irascible & bony &
braces his feet to speak
flings his indignation into
the wages of sin denounces all our fun
when the wind turns wickedly rouge
rubs a glow over our faces
knows he is a prophet crying in the wilderness
crow heads straight for the dark scraggly bottoms
crow has already littered with sermons
where we ourselves have fallen among
twigs & brush that line the creeks
sticks & stones will not break our bones
small creatures we huddle
for warmth & love &
hope
safety from his eye