A Crow At The End Of A Windy Day Poem by Karl Carpenter

The crow is exposed to the wind flouting its power,
thrashed about up and down and side to side,
feathers unkempt and nearly thrown against a pine,
the wind booming like the long hum of the gods' base drum,
swallowing the crow's caws for help as he wobbles about the air.

The sky above seethes with the night and the sun's last light,
and becomes a wall of a dark blue hue as dusk arrives,
calmly looking on as the lost bird flaps feebly before its face,
the wind's weight jousting unrelenting against the bird's wings,
a storm with far more wrath than any contained in clouds.

Five hours later, he lays flat in a field, his feathers strewn about,
the wind beat him like an elephant that carelessly crushes an anthill.
The moon bathes his feathers in white blood, the same that gushed
at Golgotha when His knees were knocked out, and still the sky
With the moon, its one eye, watches calmly, and waits for sunrise.