The shop rattled. Antique bottles broke.
Oil and vinegar spilled
staining the stone pavement.
A painting of saplings
that caught the eye of the crow.
He landed keeping
his large wings open, umbrella'd
as if to protect
this sudden print
crafted by the quake.
He clenched an olive pit
in his beak
and dropped it at the point
where a sprig should leaf
and flower, reveal the bead work
of rain, the white luster
of a moth. Where a woman's hands
on a hillside terrace
tied string around a vineyard branch.
A tree she had planted to praise
her husband's return from the dead --
its tasting room
of mold and shuttered light.