The Corvid’s Psalm

The crow, she does not,
she cannot, blend in
with a nodding sweetness sung
to welcome the becoming time, the
exchange of vigil between stars and sun.

Instead, heavy of presence and proclamation, both,
she prays her own psalm honestly:
her self-reflective observation
from within the upper arboreal girders,
bare but for her gaze and contemplation,
out and over and somehow within:
This, all of this, and all of me and mine, we
rise to praise you and to work and to watch over,
undaunted, unashamed, and not
without opinion.