For you, Mór-Rioghain  

How do I survive each orbit unscathed?
No angelic visitations invite holiness into my bed
or to my meager meadow. One crow, an acolyte,
grips my fence and evaluates. Who worships
at the foot of the towering fir up the road,
this crow or me?  

Day washes vision in white light.
Perched on my porch, I flip through the news in my palm,
read of hypocrites suddenly bitten by rancor.
They ruffle false feathers yet ignore pleas from constituents.
I disbelieve pseudo-seraphic senators.  

I petition the fence-fixed passerine to raise one foot,
to sign a benediction, a ward for safety.
My curiosity has become carrion within this pandemic anxiety –
to dig dirt alone in my garden,
to communicate with my neighbors by waving but no closer.  

Then I shut and latch my door
to escape judgement in the crow’s eyes.