The crows will let you know for sure
when God is dead.
They will glide the stilled winds
and land upon the unmoving shoulder.
Bit by torn bit, the crows will carry
the dead God across the river,
reassemble that mighty visage,
and the cacophonous multitude
will caw and chortle and caw again
until they wake the dead to new life
in a shady glade of alder trees
recovering the forest from an old burn.
copyright © 2019 Kenneth P. Gurney