Painting by Pamela Heater
Summons
Beak open wide, the crow
sits atop the lamppost
outside my third-floor window.
Soft thwock-thwock-thwock
rises and falls in sync with
shrugging shoulders
as his feathers lift
into dishevelment,
sink back to smoothness,
lift again.Is he calling his crow brothers
or is he talking to himself?
Could he be summoning me
into the wilder world?
After a month of illness
I can look out again.
He tells me
Leave the cloister,
write a poem on air.
