The Wing of the Black Crow

 

The wing of the black crow

                   Sails silent down the sun-blue sky.

 

At rest he sits, head downward-cocked,

                   Upon a barren, thorny branch;

 

He utters raw and raucous notes;

                   He lifts his glossy, glinting pinions,

                   He dives into the sun,

 

                   And diving makes his blackness jump,

                             A flash of jet,

                             A somber star,

                   To sing bright his Maker’s praise