Crow Sun
A single crow calls its intention over the day’s snow shroud.
Sky and ground share a color, competing in their bluing white.
Only trees, a barn, power lines, a hill’s dimming silhouette,
defy the sky’s hunger and they, too, are losing the struggle.
The crow knows its present place, the high thrust limb,
its perch like a wounding crack working into the hungry sky.
The crow calls its intention through the day’s snow shroud,
louder than the windless snow, the darkest thing visible,
shaking off the snowflakes not melting from its black warmth.
I will serve as the sun today, it calls. I will serve, I will serve.
Read Larry Thacker's previous work in Still
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