“Noah opened the window of the Ark . . .

and he sent forth a raven, which went to and fro”

 

He flaps up 

from Noah’s wrist;

he has a sharp, dark eye 

for the waves that kiss

each other or splash

his breast with cold and salt 

as dusk soaks sky with its ash.

He half-believes

they clap green hands

in weary, wet applause.

 

Noah’s roaming raven

scrawls on a slate

of sea water with

his creaking, glossy wings

as he quarters the waves.

Beneath him, pale glimpses 

of the tops of towers 

are headstones without flowers.

 

His wings of jet  

beat low and stiff;

their feathered tips entreat

the planet for a perch.

A strong flyer, 

a shining shape:

a cross, carved out of coal.

So much sea.

Who would have thought

the world had so much water?