Crows Gather
Crows gather in the woodlot
near the creek. One floats
into a tree, followed by another,
then more strung across the sky ‒
from down the valley more than a dozen
in all, caws from the last of them
puncture the orange dusk. How
like my heart, these crows that float,
that meander across the cold-blue sky
and alight in the trees, hunched and peering:
watchful, timorous.
Silence grows in the frost
on the dark side of the trunks.
– Steve Peterson
No comments:
Post a Comment
Thanks for commenting!