Ravens at Red Bank
a foursquare gliding dance
a half-quadrille
an airborne masque of rare
funereal etiquette
on the polished floor of sky
where black
is de rigueur
their cries bump and grate
iron gourds
from which the lake’s bright
lead or liquid
slate is poured
feathered spokes
of a sky-wheel turning
then tumbling to a dare
shot dead
until their wings flick out
to flirt
a carbon-diamond
sex appeal
we stumble to a halt
stand staring skyward
in the wet sap-scent
of this logged space
one birch
goes up
straight
as a radio
mast
its budding tines
capture the quadraphonic
sky-dance
bring it down
to wood anemones
herb paris
humble in the grass
the broken yokes
of celandines
your raptured
upturned face.
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