A Ceiling of Crows Poem by Judith Skillman

Our dark bird of symbolism, our caw caw.
Where does the train of thoughts go?
In what order, and is the river of Lethe
above or below the earth? What about heaven -
does it lie in the upper region, above cirrus
banded, dried, pinked? If they flew beneath
the ground, in hell, we'd see what they'd done
to deserve their reputation, about which
little can be done except observe how they dog
the cat, drive the songbirds from thicket
to holly to hunger. On the shortest day
of this long, hard year, they'll still come in droves.
You and I - gloved, hooded - beneath a catechism
of crosses pouring through a hole in the sky
to peck at the blind sun, the halved moon.