My separation from heaven is false,
vertiginous and beautiful,
even as clouds pass the moon,
moon passes the stars.
Dawn is damn miserable until
the crows begin feeding in the street.
They are here to bow and scrape
their dead for food and normalcy,
as if wished iridescent into life,
into the mist that is melting snow.
I'd forgotten the dragons of winter
that lay drowsing in the ice-laced vales.
This damply sharp morning,
when the birds and I
slow down under the sky,
festival dragons ascend through us.