Winter Crow / Z. R. Ghani

The forest, abattoir

of veins and bones,

spine and stone

has a heartbeat -

A crow

on a vertebrae branch dithers

He cossets treasures

Here a grub – an amputated finger

There a ring – more mud than diamond

A plastic cap head-banged

to a pulp

The sunset is a smudge;

any sign of light

is a slight of hand.

A passer-by braves the cold;

when the crow quakes his ember-dry cackle

nothing trembles…