Nov 02

Rook

The rook
has eyes for me
in the woods
with ebony
talons he grips the 
branch 
he came long ago
and
the trunk 
already washed over
his feet
I doubt he would
ever die
the rook needs 
nothing
but he still asks
and tells me to come
with him
out of the 
nest we have created in the 
woods
from our place 
at the spreading oak
we can see the edge of the 
forest
he strains towards the sunlight
the bark around his 
feet frays
and he wrenches himself from
the tree
the rook
unfolds his rusted feathers
of black and gold and red
but he falls
and I rush to catch him
in my hands he 
looks ancient
but his face fills
with a new sort of
wonder
I carry the rook
to the edge of the forest
and prop him on a stump
eyes of soot meet
the golden sun
and a single, inky tear 
leaks down his 
beak