Poem for Saturday, March 1, 2014

Harbinger

The latest form fate has assumed:

the branches of the trembling
aspen, helplessly
tangled in the wind, scraping
the claws of the low-flying
crow.

Still,
he is undeterred: a harbinger, lonely
in his blackness,
wings kissed with rain as he soars
through clueless vapors that we call
sky.