Sound out in the language of crows
Be the black bladed omen
strut with no particular purpose
or perch atop a branch or telephone pole
sparrows and finches will dive and circle
to humans hurtling by in their bodies of metal
you are a slash punctuating sky
They don’t know your devotion
to a mate as well as to others
nor how you transform debris into nest and feast
What if this is Heaven?
You the feathered Lord?