The soaked crow beside the road
has lost his definition. His smooth
bird outline and shiny blue-black
feathers—once used by poets
to describe the color of
their beloved’s hair—
are dulled and dripping. He seems
attired in unkempt fur, wooly.
Like a yak. His stick legs gingerly
step beneath him through a muddy
puddle. The surrounding neon grass
plays its role as the gatekeeper
of the busy college road, lying
obedient before the digital clock
in the yard of the national bank’s
prim and well-kept local branch.
Copyright © 2014 Jennifer Moxley
Used with the permission of Flood Editions.