The thin crows

Rose, a knot of birds,
She opens
Five moon skies
For eyes to light a dream,
Black milk-spout, big finger;
She has so many ladders
For getting a leg up
To these limber crows.

She learns, good natured
Child that she is, how
To circle, veer, half-turn
Index the wing,
Tumblehead, blunt helper,
Crows scavenger fetcher,
Whipper of mites,
No daytime dozer,
She shuts on the key
Of these jackdaw toys.

Black-feet, branching
Touchy limb,
She noses out the lay
Of bark and twig,
Cold height and warm nest.
Young ornithologist,
Your note page
Crossed by three causeways,
Feathery, treeless,
With black-tongued landspits.

Black-backed, black-bellied,
As a pitched night, she
Wings the Sky of Do,
The left her mirror,
Her backward image.
Feather-bearer, beaked girl,
The crow’s foot,
By heart here she holds
Silver screws, rings
And her crow’s body.

Ill-served she will be when
Flight mishandles her
(Broken arms and splints,
Skin a scapegoat for a bruise);
Worse-served when jackdaws
Make off with her wings.
No earthworms in a box
To feed the thin crows.

Copyright © 05/04/2019 lance sheridan®

The thin crows