D. R. James
The lone crow on the lone pole
where the weathervane used to whirl
insinuates my need for misdirection.
He is an arrow of skittish attention,
of scant intention: the cock and hop,
the flick and caw toward anything
on the wind. Now angling east, now
south by southwest, he designates
with beak then disagreeing tail feathers,
with a lean-to and a shoulder scrunch,
with an attitude from his beady black eye—
as if he were ever the one to judge.
And once he’s spun like a pin on a binnacle
past all points of his madcap inner compass,
once the clouds have bowed to push on
and the grasses waved their gratefulness,
he unfurls the shifty sails of his wings
and the breeze relieves him of his post.
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