A cloudless sky and air so clear, I can see gnats dancing 100 feet away. In the deep shade, borrowing shards of sun, the wings of a crow.



    From where I sit, Stick, I can see how God
    presides over the fate of mice and men.

    Look at those gnats dancing on the head
    of a cabbage: now that’s what feasting is.

    Suck and fly, suck and fly! Swarm around
    the little garden, bite and fly, bite and fly.

    Isn’t this the ritual of all struggle? Take
    all you can while you can. Grasp if you can.

    It won’t be long nor will this last forever:
    the spectre of a reaper lurks in the deep shade,

    its wings lit by shards of sunlight. There it is.
    The Crow descends on the cabbage patch.

    It sizes up the swarm of gnats, and quickly
    opens its beaks to let them fly into a throat

    that earlier cackled an invitation: Come!
    Abandon all hope you who enter here. Come.

    Much like the chapel bells ringing for the
    flock to gather for the Rapture, milord.

    Shut up, Stick, I see where your point is going.

    —Albert B. Casuga

  2. As if it were the shadow of a woman’s hair
    This tree’s deep shadow
    Lets stray golden rays of sunlight
    Through to light my raven feathers
    And my beak gleams black — I wonder
    Whom this ancient woman loves
    Whose hair is hiding me away
    Whose twigs I use to build my nest
    Whose branches frame my every move

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