Crowsong

by Lewayne L. White

A dark-winged bird on a marble perch
Eyes his images beneath his feet.

A cutting wind inspires crisp leaves
To dance and whirl like dervishes.
Naked branches claw the clouds
Unleashing weeping from the sky;
Teardrops fall upon the beasts below,
Who stand within a garden of stone.

The bird imitates the awful caws
Of affected sadness, no hearts, no souls.
Creatures that interrupt his rest
With anguished cries, feigning mourning,
Are to him but flesh and bone
On which to feast when their time comes.

He neither carries souls to heaven
Nor prophesies impending doom,
He simply waits until the time
When he himself may feast upon
The soulless shapes beneath his feet.