The City of Crows

rises from the human city
like a tree above its shadow--
combs the air with spreading branches
full of raucous citizens.

Maps laid out in three dimensions,
compass roses round as apples,
chart the windy passages to
where the crows hold parliament.

Riding high on fountain updrafts,
falling then, like stones with feathers,
shooting off along the sidewalk,
settling like black parachutes,

do they watch with raucous laughter
while the roofer climbs his ladder
clinging, terrified of falling,
hapless slave of gravity?

No-one knows the secret business
crows transact on every rooftop.
In their sky-vaulted cathedrals,
do they worship on the wing?