—from Spirit of Wild
A rain of starlings in winter’s longest night –
a negative of white and black,
breathing shadows inked by shadows.
Faint flecks echo, reflect
obsidian sky glossed with stars.
Skimming sable woods, each sooty
wing
flicks, whisks the snow,
ebony clouds changing shapes
whispering –
whether it be hard as onyx or
soft as pitch –
but rising, always rising, again.
