For all we know, the world ends here. Every bird
turned crow and every crow at the trash can.

One crow begets two. Two crows beget a thousand.

Glass wing. Still eye. Whichever way we turn
is crow. The flapped blacks and blues

of their bodies. The oiled fans of their tails.

We try our voices in a cloud of crow-song.
They come back to us as crow-song.

Everything needs saving. The late song

of the chain saw. The snowpack. The pine.
We who have wrecked the mountain,

we are the rotten and divine.

Black wing, full of grace, the world
is with thee. All our myths

have crumpled to their knees. Tell me,

in the black chapel of these wings, how are we?
How are we made clean?