(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.