Steven Schroeder | singing winter
Standing on solid ground, crow sees it all
slant, not wholly from above but spinning
like a planet in pieces. Fabricating
stories in the middle of things, crow scales
them to see darkly beyond a thousand cities lying
end to end. Hopping to the side of the path,
crow cocks her head and sees things
political animals who think they
own the place can not imagine.
Sparrows flock in low bushes singing
winter. Out of sight, they see nothing.
Flying now, crow wishes she had such eyes.
Chicago
12 January 2021
