You see wings the color of night
and want to say it's the shaman's bird,
find portents in the clicks and caws
that crack the morning. You want
mystery and the mystic,
truth unfolding as light as feathers
or as dark as death, to know
their wheeling flight at dusk reveals
a world no longer common.
It would be that romantic,
but Brother, I have to tell you
those are crows.