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Black, but blue
when seen at angles
glanced by the sun
of the crow's silken feathers,
upon the spire,
across the yard,
at a distance easy
to his discerning eyes
only
We worked the hod
by hoe and trowel,
the brick by tong, bob,
and all-seeing eye;
with his upon us
all through morning
even through noon
He squawked and screeched
alone up on his peak
never lighting to forage
or to leafless tree,
and critiqued our labor of hand,
our simple chimney of noble worth
The mason,
rough-pawed, split-skinned,
quick with tool and temper
wished the crow slightly nearer
to sever that tempestuous
beak from body
And into the afternoon we prevailed.
The flues, one-on-one,
were stacked
The bird, unmoved,
remarked
A cool Autumn night
began to build its walls around
And then the day was done
And as well our work,
all touches final,
all joints routed,
the mortar hinting
of ice
So upon our leave
I turned once last
to see the crow
launch off his spire,
dip and swoop,
and land to stand
atop our work
And in the frosted night,
he, as dark as night himself,
spread his wings,
filled his chest,
and laughing wildly there,
warmed himself by
heat of the house...
the forgotten damper
left open.
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