A Crow

--Lawrence Raab

Here is the strict, abstract

light of winter. From a bare branch

a crow takes flight, rising

heavily, overcoming

the impossible. Snow

sifts from its branch.

A white shawl.

Thousands of separate flakes.

The bird has moved to another tree,

cawing harshly, though I can

barely hear it, with the windows

locked in place

against the cold. So the mind

remains at a distance

from its concerns,

its uncertain desires--

nothing to think of, or to say,

nothing truly seen until later.