Carl Newlen

The Crow

- July 10, 2009, 3:23 pm | Poetry

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His flight begins at the dried and bent cornstalks
then into the wind that rises above the trees.
It seems to him there are tall trees and hills forever
and behind the colors of autumn, the cold.

The soothing rhythm of beating black wings
lifts him to fly in the widest circles,
and is the only sound he can hear
because up there he flies alone.

The strong north winds push his body far
from the field. He battles his own weakness,
then surrenders, turning with the wind,
and disappears without a trace.

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