Her blue-black wings gloss
over the wintry waves as
water transmogrifies to ice,
slow thickening to crystal.

Her blue-black wings are night
sky gleaming, scheming to fulfill
the appetite of apparent destiny.

She descends, soaring in gyre
like a vulture without finesse
till we spy her furtive eye,
intent upon her prey, our home.

A depth of mystery embodied
as mischievous messenger, she
wheels between solemn worlds
before form takes firmer hold.

Her croak is fur stroked rough
the wrong way. Inconsiderate
of lilies spread before her, she

splays wide wings for field landing,
screeching with the sudden force of
impact to settle into this dimension.

Cocky now, she stalks coarse earth
for remnants of farmers' harvest,
rusted corn cob prised in her beak.

And she shall be fed. She shall be
full: 'Deus alit eis' (God feeds them):
She takes care such promise is kept.