Evensong of the Crows
1.
In the hour before sunset
they begin pouring in
to the cities, dressed
in feathery robes,
gushing in bursts
along flight streams
that ride the interstates.
Small commuters
whirling and whirling
in thin gray air
like notes on a page
sung by the wind's high voice,
returning to the steady dusk
of streetlights,
the held warmth
of brick and macadam.
2.
Prayers for that last orange blaze
across treetops, for light
and for corn still left
in the fields, for flight
and sinking into dark,
for how updraft yields
to wingspread, for freedom from
great horned owls, and for death,
especially death, which is
all providence.
Then it's over
and just a random
creaking as branches
bend to their weight.
3.
What overripe
fruit is this:
puff-breasted,
rusty-voiced,
coming out of the air
to find perch and repose
above us
in God's spiky hair?
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