In a weedy field trembling with crows
a woman lusts, strips, flings herself
into the spectacle of being a crow  

Her wings arrows, she devours the sky
High in a leafy oak nest, she portions
skewered fruit for fledglings  

same as she pieces out time between roost
and the yellow house with a wingless man
where she purples flowers, assembles stones  

She forgets her body, opens
herself into a golden flame
or sometimes, a shaft, to wound                                

~ Found poem composed/modified from words in Brigit Pegeen Kelly’s poem, “Divining the Field”