By Jon von Nottingham
Dead tree down
and the cradle
of aether sags;
one more pillar
banished,
one more whisker
plucked from the
brow of earth.
That was yesterday’s poem,
born from January rain,
where it once snowed
from thin clouds,
coughing alabaster glass
into odd yellow twilights.
Today I saw
a bald eagle
disrupt the typical
winter inertia
of a murder of crows.
Her spirit sanctioned
something ancient
beyond the veil;
new life is chalked
on slate,
new love takes root
neath her wingspan.
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