The feather pile in the bin moans
I say, it’s okay, you Crow.
It’s okay. Sleep now.
A last few syllable caws come –
“I’m saw-ree” and I am exhausted by
the real difficulty of innocence
With a faint clinking
the bird bones roll in the wind
taking up shapes
and finally gusting off as sand
dissolving into heaven
or whatever there is
God is there with me in a wheelchair
and we all three cry
for the darkness
and the beauty
and the coldness that has come.
Dove has the last word.
She writes in the sand with her branch