A family of crows assembles in the deep snow.
The wind ripped through their roost last night,
the choice crabapples of summer freeze at their feet.

In its den the snake’s skin shrivels
while new skin shines the color of embers.
Come spring the snake will surge from old skin
and flash across the rocks, a begging target.
The black bulk of crow will dive into the blow,
the black beak will flip it and hack it.
There’s this sweet morsel in the middle of the belly. Piquant, pink, and plump.

The crows press close together against the wind.
Their eyes roll back into their skulls and
gaze at the blaze on the rocks.