Crows in Wind

Crows in Wind

No coal to their riotous laughter. They are spilled
                    ink in the spikes of sycamores.
How they swipe the wild air
                    with their wings. If you had hollowed
bones you would risk the wild ride
                    of a sky filled with gilt clouds, contrails.

Instead you accrue the earthbound aches
                    of a woman in the midst of treatment
or aging or simply a hard day
                    growing harder because it lacks
the healing grace of stillness and trees.

Ahead, vistas of in-between fill with umber
                    and ochre, crows' play and
spiral, their daft spell of falling
                    and your slow-won acceptance
of trouble, a cousin to beauty.