the stillness of a perched crow—
perhaps it contemplates a distant destination,
the whisper of flapping wings,
the camaraderie of a journey at dawn across January skies,
or the solitary moment on the margin between flight and rest
early, in the blue morning,
with a dusting of wet snow
and bitter wind,
the crows make their way from their roost—
their cacophony of sound traveling on the falling,
thick flakes, from a height that renders them small black specks that i struggled to see, beyond the iciness that clung to my lashes
spanishwoods 