Monument on a tree.

Walking through the maze and
hazes of trees and possibilities,
a creature with crow wings
and a beak like a circle
came pointing at me
from a bush.

Not an animal like any creature
I had seen, though it shivered
and jolted like one. Perched,
on an unstable branch
crying in the wind,
its brim was dark,

dark like the middle point of a long tunnel
that escapes, completely, from light.
Its top was shaped like a mound,
frosted with a morning mist,
black with a king’s blood
from medieval times.

Around its edge, its event horizon,
a strip, shiny and thin, ridged
and minutely corrugated,
prizing a bright feather.
Dropped from tropics
or a phoenix’s tail.

Its brilliant Felt posture, proud, fixed and stern,
like it belonged to a sharp Victorian detective,
inquisitive and smart, quiet, ready to solve.
A funny thing, to find in a tired and old,
ivy graveyard. And yet, it fit perfectly.
Another monument from times gone.

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