My winter crow sits outside the window
and his black body flares against the white
of the newly blanketed, soft, wet snow.
The bird sits grounded on the fence from flight,
caught in the eye by his own reflection
that clipped his wings and stole away his plight.
Then from the window a small hand, a gun,
and then a stone at the head of his sheet,
the white cotton lain down, and Christmas fun.