A Murder of Crows

Image: "Galaxy Connections" By Ruth Calder Murphy (Arciemme)

My breath

does the dance of death

on frosty air,

cools

like the corpse of Summer there

and drifts,

melancholy,

to nothing.

A murder of crows

cooks scandal in skeletal trees

and dusk sulks on the chilly breeze,

stealing sight

and bringing black night

on the back of ghostly grey.

I bury my breath

and say a heartfelt “Kyrie”

that slides along the sharp edge

of the scythe

and turns to ice.

Stars sparkle in frost at my feet

and in the atramentous heights,

shine bright,

light years away and growing old.

When did fire become so cold?