Sun still raw, moon long gone. One crow, a scrap of flapping
basalt in a wilderness, a waste of blue. Another.
They’re losing themselves in blue, crow after crow, blueness all
round them, immensities of blue-disappearing down the throat of
blue where there is no there there.
They’ll come to roost soon, jostling in branches for a berth, while
blue starts its slow decline from steel to slate, slate to pocked
onyx, a shade in which they’ll grow invisible except to one
another, weather-eyes slow to close in sleep.