poetry & things


Outside my door a cawing crow

of blackened wings and indigo

delivered by night’s shivering storm.

The wind and winter’s howling call,

scattered nests and down the feather falls.

Crack of limbs, cold and bare branched

mesquite leaves and needles spiral to the ground.

In a swooping field he flies into the tallest pines

deep and slow, the trees creak

wild in cello tones.

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