Jet-black flyer, wintry clime,
Sheen refracting sun-lit feathers,
How to parse a bird so fine,
Dark as pitch what e’er the weather.
Can it be that such a hue
Carries with it thoughts of death,
Has us ponder, ask anew,
What remains for us of breath?
Or do such colors as the crow’s,
Call attention to the light,
Set against New England snows,
The opposite of death and night?
A deep enigma, what’s the answer?
Let me ask the crow, Zen Master.
Crow Koan
Show Comments ()
1
Comments are automatically closed two weeks after an article's initial publication. See our comments policy for more.
11 years 7 months ago
Vince, Thanks so much for this poem; it's love you.
The latest from america
Tom Wolfe would have loved to write about a debate between a billionaire former president who is also a convicted felon and an octogenarian sitting president whose public mental lapses are vociferously denied by many of his own confidantes.
A statue of Mary giving birth to Jesus was beheaded by an anonymous group of vandals, garnering support from traditionalist Catholics who have criticized the statue's depictions.
Some polls are going as far to predict that Prime Minister Rishi Sunak might lose his own seat on July 4. He would be the first Conservative prime minister to suffer such a humiliation.
“The Eucharist is the food that makes us hungry,” says Eucharistic Revival preacher Joe Laramie, S.J., so when he preaches, he hopes to stir his congregation “to deeper hunger for the Lord, to grow in deeper devotion to him.”