She has seen vast murders of crows
as they forage within fields searching for grains to spare,
to ease their grief; she has witnessed their blueblack feathers glisten
as the sun descends behind the burled hills where forgetfulness reigns,
their courage as they rise again, seeking other landscapes
to sustain their dark and dire dreams of plenty.
She has scattered seeds around her,
forming concentric circles of wishes
for crows to acknowledge her existence,
waiting only for a sigh or a sign
to prove her life has not been wasted
or lived in vain.
They flock above her patiently,
waiting for her offerings to fall, then they will come near,
gathering close to where glen meets mountains
in a warm greeting before autumn comes,
her wild winds whipping skirts and feathers aloft.
Connected temporarily to this earth,
her frail fingers remember wings as they once were
and will soon become again.
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