The temple where crow worships
walks forward in tall, black grass.
Betrayal is crow’s way of saying grace
to the wolf
so it can eat
what is left
when blood is on the ground,
until what remains of moose
is crow
walking out
the sacred temple of ribs
in a dance of leaving
the red tracks of scarce and private gods.
It is the oldest war
where moose becomes wolf and crow,
where the road ceases to become the old forest
where crow is calling,
where we are still afraid.