She landed, lightly,
atop the tallest fir tree
at the edge of the driveway,
perched there just after he
came outdoors.
He smoked two
thirds of a joint
and all of a cigarette–
she perched there,
keeping him company
for a few moments of
icicle winter.
Two sweaters, a coat
and a shiver,
clenched shoulders–
she sat idly
while his hands froze over,
a bird
or a messenger
or prophesy holder.

She pecked at the top of the tree.
She perched there,
an airplane descended
through the backdrop blue sky,
but he was watching her.
She said something
he did not understand and
the moment he stamped out
the cigarette, reached into
his coat, thinking
he’d take a picture
of his few moments’ company
on one cold March afternoon–
she moved off the tree.
Hovering, gaining height,
pointing North-Northeast
towards Flatrock,
breaking into flight,
seamlessly meeting, midair,
six more of her own
who’d come for her,
disappearing over the house.
Tricksters one and all or
headed back to the Tower of London or
a husband, two sisters,
a brother and two grandchildren
in life,
or just seven crows
and him
with no secrets left to tell.

so graceful in their assembly.
My cold fingers,
fumbling with the freezing doorknob.


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