Hope is the thing with feathers    Emily Dickinson
Crows crumple like rags across a wreath of dry bristles

their raspy commands like phlegm from demented mouths

I think of sulphur and soot, of the sick trees of East Germany

how I stood in the dark silence with the wildness buried beneath.
Feathered arguments eclipse the quiet voices

for those who will not stop    for stop you must

doubt is blindness to the wren in the wood

hope is listening to her song.
For blackbirds still rose above skeleton pines

dipped and arched in impulsive play    cried in joy

or so I believed    for reciprocity has taught me

to dance when there is music, to pause when there are birds
If I clap my hands a flock of love letters baptise the sky

words fall like leaves across my palm

counsel

                           trust    receive

attached only to the wind at their breasts, the birds fly on.
The grace of flight is wind welcoming bones and the absence of expectation.