The color of light: a crow

Pulling a wire from a telephone pole for the better part of Sunday,

winding and unwinding, burst of wing and tug:

Like a blot of ink untethering the pen and word, like the green

of nectar slipping from the crow’s lips. 

When I first met you, I was full of light. But now the uncertainty

carries me off and the tide takes no direction. The call of the holy

is a call I know well. I knock at the gate, I watch the crow,

his big body of soot and intrigue entangled in the equinox. 

I wait and wander around—taking in this big life,

its simple wares. 

In darkness god is not

lost. But in the bright light of day 

god’s mind slips downstream. 

How can the color of water be named if 

nobody, not even god,

lets the hue become a feeling, immersion itself?

So it stands to reason, 

God: the heron taking off from water

       and 

The color of light: a crow.