Shadow of the Crow
by Candace Armstrong

Save me from planting in the shadow of the crow.
His strident caw echoes the grating of chipped spade striking
stony earth, the spur to chase him to the fencerow,
remove him from casting spells of my disliking.

His shade is not welcome. It reminds of omens,
dread loneliness of passing. I see him at the horizon,
where the chalky sky has flecks like a dirty lens
and the soil has an urgency pushing me on.

Flocks descend. Large and glossy clouds of perversion
cover seeds and seedlings aiming their black deathblow.
But earth will prevail, her recovery hard-won.
Eternity is now. Surviving seeds will grow.



 

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