The day lightens from cold
to blue. A glint of her caught
in crow's diadem as he wheels
home. We are bound to hard things,
to wood, steel and wire –
Who would hear heartsongs
in the cacophony of words
tumult-born? Day is carried
in by crow's harsh heralding
through and above those
stormy crosscurrents.
Soaring, his fluid gyration.
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Even now, now, his harsh
heralding is the one true thing.
