Composition Ravens

Three black knives
cleave morning air.
Snow has softened the sound
but even driving 
beside them, we hear
the slicing of wings.
One has a bright orange 
peel, the other two stroke,
young swimmers, toward
the concrete wall, kick
off at exactly 
the right moment,
toward the highway, 
guardrail left 
quivering and greasy
in their wake.  
They could spend
all morning breaking each
others’ hearts, doling out
the energy they need 
to survive the night--
aching to capture the bright
orange jewel, to decorate
their own mouths, 
flashing, iridescent 
against a white canvas,
loving their terrible bodies.