Rooks Over Mariupol
Rooks raise a complaint, but cannot erase
the blinding mist.
I live in the mist of a distant land.
The sun is veiled yet I know it exists.
Raucous rooks tear from branch tips,
black into squall.
Tempest of wings rip at seams,
imagined and real.
This is the grief, storm in the flesh
of the forsaken.