Perched on the cathedral ledge,
little sentinel hunched in stone, sky gray
as weather, all alone out there.

Snow falling past him, so many
tiny hands drifting from heaven’s canopy,
numbed breath of centuries

His sunken eyes peer into
the half-light of stricken trees, footpaths
along the slate-still river. Wary.

holding vigil, he watches dawn
burn swarming demons into crusty rinds.
Morning slowly lights her rose window.