The weight of space in the eyes

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.

 

 

About pinklightsabre

William Pearse publishes memoir, travel journals, poetry and prose, and lives in the Pacific Northwest.
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