sightless, as walls of mists
birthed a fit of flaps and slaps
then soft tones like wind in carved spaces
filled this gaunt and gray-bare tree
emitted from its cloak of cold and fog
softened dry throat songs from ravens
who defied lingered dark at dawn
a reach for warm day, release
from the long hunger of night.
Flightless stands have endured ravenous needs
and song sound floats
like these billows of low flung cloud.
In the interstices my spirit adds
a tympani, thrums of harp strings
a thoughtful four-part harmonic hum
all the while a transformation
in sudden glints of sun(--)
fluffed wet wings and readied
for the inspired moment to rise(--)
perhaps will be a breeze from the east
where far above sweet Venus still rises
to whet the will of ancient auguries.
Their black sleek shine, gleams in seeming holy light
this burly choir of crows to now
become a quiet stillness, buds of sunflame
limb upon bare and shaking limb-
a murder of angels.
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