When a crow clutches
a knotted branch
with wiry fists,
he is not merely resting.
It is a kind of becoming.
An embrace of what he is not.
He desires the root
and the wind moving over;
the gossip of chattering leaves.
The tree's dreams of flight
perched on his limbs
dreaming of rootedness.
A penetration
and a wrapping around.
The smell of you,
of everything I can only imagine,
here in my mouth
penetrating that which embraces.
Delicious these things I am not,
being loved
by these things
I am loving.