A white crow squats on a telephone wire,

one among the black,

a beak, claws and cobalt eye.



Cool and shrewd as poets waiting

for the black ghost, the perfect metaphor,

the smidgeon of truth, the inspired cause.


The white crow steals off

and evaporates against clouds, its bill

the one black mark punctuating the sky.


Mute as a clean page

snowy white and cawing.