Crow
L
Leo Yankevich
0
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Crow, the doves descending on the square
have sullied your name, cooed gossip to wealthy tourists,
their gullets stuffed with handouts, while you soar
over the oaks with dreaming clouds, with the glare
and glimmer of the distant but holy sun
in your misunderstood eyes, your paeans one
with the wind. Yet it was you who, perched on the shoulder
of Jesus, watched him suffer and heard him cry,
and it was you who saw the enormous boulder
moved, and you who saw him enter the sky.
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