The crippled crow comes from nowhere,

hops enthusiastically into my lower spine,

begins to peck for loose seeds
hurled out by damaging winds.

I limp outside, get blindsided by the most crystal blue rinsed sky ever made.

The crippled crow stops pecking,
his black eyes spiralling into memory, a grain of sand descending into nautilus.

His wings begin to flap, the deep clean power of blue wavy air taps into his bloodstream but he cannot lift.

He is grounded on a small black mesa in unkind territory.

Jagged rock slides, deteriorating structures, a perfect place to rise and sail,

but still
His wings do not stop
trying to lift.

Not one tear in his eyes,
only strangling caws
fill the perfect blue sky with
His Crippling song.

He limps along with me,
together we can only stare
out at what calls to us, a silent soothing voice parading through us with a taste of freedom saturating in our blood like Rumi's divine wine.