High branch perch wavers not in the
resounding caw of the glass crow beak
Sun glinting off his spying orbs meet the
fire and disintegrate
Unleashing an under-wing breeze that stirs
street dust into a cyclone of night terrors
Sentenced northward on the hunched backs of
self-mourning leaves dragging along the arch of the bridge
He hangs from the vine twined branch his head
looping back to his neck
Steel blue feathered wings in rigor prayer
formation
Rusted joints heeding the blind in their
passing to avoid narrowing their vision
The gusts that roar rippling the creek below
sway his once regal form
The ghost on the line that strangled him
mid-flight in the misdirection of a new moon cry
Grins through the wrinkled oak bark as maniacal laughter beats itself
against the rocks
E.A. O'Connell
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