(Translation: the birds that laugh.)
Sitting on the roof of the sanctuary
four crows cackle as they
see the prayers rise from
the weekly service below.
The sermon is on forgiveness,
a topic which the crows disdain:
one should act without apology.
(this is the crow’s manifesto.)
When they congregate,
crows are called a murder.
Black ink drips from their
feather tips, penetrating
the holy hinges and dropping
on the heads of selected congregants.
This is a new kind of baptism:
the blood of crows, spilled for you.
Ridicule in ink spots.