Crone Corps plots to take back Malheur

In the Name of Misfortune

Take it back for the grandchildren

In the name of the land, of the birds.

In the name of passage and shelter in  transit

I call the grandmothers

Come with soft feathers, robed in  down,

helmed with silver hair

Our deep knowledge and dry wry anger.

Let us come together like a covenant of owls

A murder of crows

We answer an older law

They must answer to us for what they have done

Calling the grandmothers, the crones, the silver ones

Let us walk together in the white winter light

This is our time

Come together like a smother of feathers

The dry hidden talons

It is time

Take it back for the feathered things

For the silver spill of damp in a dry place

Calling all crones

To a place called misfortune

It is time to stand up like dry reeds

Whispering protection for the tiny hot transients

It is time to take back the sacred places of the dead

So we know we can also lie in peace at our time

Calling the flightless ones, the winged ones

The ones that ride the  broom

To the place called misfortune

In the name of the horned soft being who demands, WHO

It is time.