Crows circle overhead,
Black wings against granite sky.
There is obviously something below
Something beneath them
That I cannot see and
That keeps them there
For a while in swirling observation.
Below them, trees stripped of leaves,
Stand in frozen silence
Unable to warn of the horror and ecstasy
That might unfold.
They watch on
I watch on
Out of the window
Circling something in my mind that I cannot escape,
That I keep coming back to
And in the centre, unchanging, immovable,
I am rooted like those trees.
Unable to shift my orbit as those birds do
Who, growing cold or bored or weary,
Disband their unholy circle
And scatter like grit
Caught on invisible currents.