a hover of crows
over mossy horizon,
small against the underbelly
of a skywide dove.
the bay so still.
hills soft as deer.
beyond their chert flanks
a few rufous flecks
of cranberry.
and always the spruce,
those scepters
comprising scepters,
lithe in the wind,
exulting,
with their great green wings,
beyond the curve
of the Earth.
About Chris Crittenden
Chris Crittenden teaches environmental ethics at the University of Maine and does much of his writing in a hut in a spruce forest. Some recent acceptances are from: Centrifugal Eye, Rose & Thorn, Ex Cathedra and The Medulla Review. He blogs as Owl Who Laughs.
