Poem 172: The Advent of Wings

Christmas day by the lake,

Early morning, a startled passer-by,
and then the sudden
shock and clatter of fast rising wings
beating against this thin altar of air,
heralds the Washington Park echo,
sacrificing this morning’s quiet
to this congregation of wayward crows
chattering, rising up, up and away
into the exultant sky, flocking
to gather in with the advent of wings
the broadest of all hallelujahs.

Mid-day, and having pierced the thinning
caul of this months brooding sky,
a flight of swans pouring down,
their wings fire gold and gifted from the latent sun,
beating against a backdrop of tissued clouds
finely drawn from the vault of heavens’
infinitely deep and roaring blue,
and then-having travelled so far,
the white wave hesitates, wings crack,
backs straighten as the swans circle
to crown the air above the lake,
and descend as slowly as settling ice.

Early evening, down the darkening course
of the over arcing blue sky, a river of black crows
flowing down, and descending to settle
and re-leaf the vacated branches
of the winter trees, while their brothers
on the ice, shuffle en masse
habitually cowled, they prey
with bowed heads and folded wings,
and with the merest suggestion
of an over the shoulder glance
they turn their backs toward the light
and fade the evening into black.