Crowfall and Catlight
Say a crow lurches into the air
from high in the maple tree;
skids, corners, falls down invisible stairs,
and drops the last yard softly to the eaves --
catlike, stealthy, perfectly controlled. Is the fall
or the landing the act?
I gather you in my arms when the light begins,
and hold you through the whole storm.
Am I trying to keep you or to give you away?
You make unearthly sounds, and so do I;
when the thunder comes
the old gods shift beneath us.
Quiet places between spatters of rain
when the window no longer flinches;
light, soft light, not quite the sun,
works up from the soil,
pauses in the stillness to lick its fur,
gazes curious at the frightened world.