(The crow)
an excerpt from “Atlas”
Glenn Bach
The crow
is the globe.
Forlorn
as in flight or tides,
paths converge
out in the air, wind
in the tapering branches.
Mountains loom solid,
grip plates, sway
this imperceptible
motion of nature,
launch, yawning rift
of green.
Palm
stilled.
The world
is this bird.