Here are glistening crows
that perch on the dragon heads
of the Catholic church on Market.
The bells bong and---startled---
they fly around and around the
steeple, like black wounds in the air
curving, carving the winds with
wings and cries, exiled by God
from eternity into time.
They always return, strutting their wings.
Traffic horns, swears and whistles
of business below do not stir them.
The dragons are their home, but
the bells send them out to their
wheels within wheels, over and again.
They stay the Winter, steal their food,
and call to the sleeping dragons.
Consider the faith of crows.