The sky falls apart at day’s end,
between the scattered branches and
inconspicuous clouds entangling
the bitter winter blue, the cold
bite of bitter winds and
the portents of the gathering
storm lift these black wings
above the lit windows and
emptying streets. The crow on high
taking one last turn,
calling its kin towards tonight’s
roost, whatever home they make
at the last edge of daylight as
December closes dark all around.
Riding the drift of wind and
the press of feathers above
all the driven stories and
transitory architecture, its throat
emptied over rooftop and
tree crown, the enduring sign
that the world works
on a different schedule,
moved by black wings and
honorable appetites above
strewn tinsel and cheap plastic lights,
Christmas only different trash.