HE WOVE HIS NEST IN THE PORTICO
Jet threaded with tincture of the violet,
This is the quill of the crow.
Softly across the net-work of bone
The thin feathers spread
Into the tail, catching the light
Of the bright air. Jet slender, gnarled
Like winter twigs, these are his legs
And feet, and his eyes
Are quick jet full of storms.
The crow goes home to a white tree
Or a green. He eats from snow
Or summer rocks. He speaks in the morning
From the quiet copse
With wild stark voice. At night
He is a token of the day.
Such a bird, though he steal your paltry seed,
Will counsel you when delight
Covers your eyes and holds your wrists
At your side, or his wing
Will flutter the pool of your heart
When its waters
Are deadened by the wind-break of wisdom.
