Crow wings beat hard to keep themselves up
They hop, squawk, strut
Never once complain.

We call them death:
Their eyes the color of space
Cold, dark,
the wisdom of the infinite
confined to a frame.

Maybe there’s no warmth in the knowing,
They have to beat hard
to keep themselves up.

Knowledge is cold, like space:
They have to beat hard to keep themselves up.

Categories: death, Poetry

Tags: american indian symbols, art, coping with death, crows, DPchallenge, Jason Molina, nature, poem, Poetry, postaday, summer, writing