In the Company of Crows

Constellated birches

Nightrain hangs in the birches,

Morningfog gray in the valley.

Crows complain of my presence,

Changing hilltops through thick air,

Scolding as they go, the local clan.

I might learn their language

If I could be still long enough.

Perhaps I should try, an effort of stasis:

Still long enough to rise from this local circumference

Into the blackshining infinite night.