He conjured up a crow
and sent it like a curse, cloaked in black,
raven-lit, it settled on her shoulder.
Who could have guessed
a crow could save,
it stole the poisoned bread.
Now when ravens strut
she counts their raucous throats
as gifts that forced a turn,
her winter heart
borrows light, just like the moon
the trees, all shadows
casting lines
in fields of new unbroken snow.