Comradely Clamour

The dome of the sky is
now as blue as a heavenly
Adriatic fluidly tempting
the crows to flaunt their
dense black silhouettes
against its static placidity.
No wind to lift them as
they flap and coast over
the forest below, their
comradely clamour
refused absorption by
the newfallen snow
muffling the landscape
below, the burning disc
of the sun reaching toward
spring burnishing their calls
to a rich, full cacophony.