A Murder, Molecules or Dinner Together

In these three crows—
with almost orange evening pulsing
behind power lines—I see
us, a rope, a
braid of wild hair,
fireside prayer, living
works of time working
at being; sisters,
counselors, conspirators, movers,
mothers, mirrors, rearers, salt
cellars, oud and eternity; and
when wings push
the ground away, when
amber burns up into blackness,
and calls
extinguished by distance, 
we will wait
at the backs of eyelids
and meet where we
are needed next.