Hear them piping one by one:
we are here, we are here.
Cardinal solos –
suns behind clouds,
almost papal.
Look up: each too divine
to appear.
Crows do not hide. They are
medieval friars selling indulgences,
safe passages, relics they lift from the eaves.
Holy cards, greased bones, bottle caps.
Crow tricks –
everything is at risk.
Holy, profane,
hidden, in plain sight –
the end of the world
will arrive
in the mouth of a bird.