3,000 angles on a raven

There is something significant
about a single black raven
perched upon an episcopal
steeple in the afternoon sun.

Maybe it's the heat that walks me
to and from these hallowed doorsteps
or perhaps it's the growing cold
to compensate for the global
climate getting warmer with change.

In this era of instant cause
and effect, tangos with terror,
religion must repent, relent
on its claims the world is error.

Though traditions die hard, lying,
one thing I will never forget --
crying wolf will call them, baying.
But change is a moving target,
and is flying a steel carpet.

The raven lands, still as a tower.
Always has, always will to power.