Crow

Fall.
Season poised on the edge of winter.
The wind spits ice.
Heady scent of wood smoke mingles
with the sharp taste of the first snowflakes.

In branches high above
a crow swaggers,
struts brazen-black in a white universe,
beak prow-thrust into the wind,
sleek tail feathers streaming.

That crow,
I envy his pizzaz.
Like a pirate king
he sways with the gusts that rock his Lodgepole pine,
Swaggering, wild and mad,
beak tocking a fierce tattoo,
Up here! Look at me!
Teetering at the precipice of the plunge,
perched on the narrow ledge of his madness,
eager to yield to the wind.

Buffeted by eddies, whirlpools, tides of air
Crow loosens his grip.
One black leg swings free,
Crow admires the cruel curve of his black claws,
regards with satisfaction
the glossy sheen
of his deranged plumage.

The whirl of snow is thicker now,
the forest quieter,
the bird a grey smudge my eyes can barely mark.

Then,
Crow lets rip.
A delirious "Caw!"
A lawless hubris that becomes the wind.
His throat - the source of the gale.

And Crow follows his voice.
Crow rattles his dissolute wings.
Crow surrenders/lets go/
Falls/pitches/tumbles/swoops -
Flings himself into the void.

And the wind is a soft mattress to land on.
A dervish kite to dance with.
An endless hillside to roll down.
A crashing wave to ride.

Hours later,
dusk falling,
An inky speck in the blank sky
tosses me a single harsh
"Cah!"
a challenge.

"Coming?"