Crow’s Last Stand

Burning
burning
burning
there was finally something
The sun could not burn, that it had rendered
Everything down to - a final obstacle
Against which it raged and charred

And rages and chars

Limpid among the glaring furnace clinkers
The pulsing blue tongues and the red and the yellow
The green lickings of the conflagration

Limpid and black -

Crow's eye-pupil, in the tower of its scorched fort.