On the stiff twig up there   
Hunches a wet black rook   
Arranging and rearranging its feathers in the rain-   
I do not expect a miracle   
Or an accident     

To set the sight on fire   
In my eye, nor seek   
Any more in the desultory weather some design,   
But let spotted leaves fall as they fall   
Without ceremony, or portent.     

Although, I admit, I desire,   
Occasionally, some backtalk   
From the mute sky, I can't honestly complain:   
A certain minor light may still   
Leap incandescent     

Out of kitchen table or chair   
As if a celestial burning took   
Possession of the most obtuse objects now and then --   
Thus hallowing an interval   
Otherwise inconsequent     

By bestowing largesse, honor   
One might say love. At any rate, I now walk   
Wary (for it could happen   
Even in this dull, ruinous landscape, 1); sceptical   
Yet politic, ignorant     

Of whatever angel may choose to flare   
Suddenly at my elbow. I only know that a rook   
Ordering its black feathers can so shine   
As to seize my senses, haul   
My eyelids up, and grant    

A brief respite from fear   
Of total neutrality. With luck,   
Trekking stubborn through this season   
Of fatigue, I shall   
Patch together a content     

Of sorts. Miracles occur.   
If you care to call those spasmodic   
Tricks of radiance   
Miracles. The wait's begun again,   
The long wait for the angel,     

For that rare, random descent.