Crowbone
Fred Schendel, Robert Low
Flung out from the fjord cliff
Fledglings on the flight's edge
Spun, whirled
Heaved on the slow-black, crow-black
Night of black-glass sea
Feathers on the breath of gods
We are our own wyrd
Our own brothers
Who face the spit of the seas
And dare to lift our wings as if we were not
Feathers on the breath of gods