The Crow Migrates from the Outer Dark

by Mike Allen

Alone among the cosmic menagerie, I am defined
not by bones drawn in stars but by black between;
as my wings eclipse, their desperate shine
bends around my feathertips, begging for your gaze.
To you, lovely worms, I'm but a lone eye
staring back at you on deepest nights
when your fires gutter out and the turbines
that charge your cities falter.
So far away you still haven't noticed
how each year my single star glows brighter,
plunging inward at the speed of light.
The curve of my wings once marked
the rim of the universe.
They still do,
that boundary shrinking
with my eons-long dive.
When I arrive, your sons and daughters
countless generations hence — those who survived
the fox's snapping jest, the thousand spider nests,
the serpent's airless smother — will see naught
in their sky but the emptiness inked in my quills,
the scavenging void's sharp beak.

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