Atonement

Far away from industrial disease,

Near the center of all things unscathed,

Perched high among the lofty willow trees;

A forlorn crow, in the darkness, bathes.

In his solitude he sings to the Earth,

His broken-hearted psalm from long ago.

In silence he speaks of his vanish worth.

Through the harsh winter and new-fallen snow,

The crow sits and waits for his redemption,

To reconcile for a bygone time.

Mistakes and faults on his own preemption.

Until one day his bells of freedom chime.