Squirrels Worshipping Crows
       

When we are dead
and our tails flick
in the street
what is left of us lights
in the high branches
where the thin twigs dangle.
Then we fly.
We find out what the fire
in the sky is like.
Leaping around in it
we become coals with wings.
Thousands of us perch
in the great tree
in the middle.

Tweet

Copyright © 2013 Michael Heffernan All rights reserved
from The Breaking of the Day
Salmon Poetry
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission