Dec 21, 2010

On the Coming of Winter

I feel for the crow.
It picks at a vague lump, a dead fish, perhaps,
locked in the ice congealing along the riverbank.

With every touch of winter's breath, the bird’s tail flicks,
its wings moving as though fanned to life as a dark flame,
illuminating this place of watery hardness, of poisoned sustenance,
of requiem birds.

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