The crows in fields of snowy drifts
resemble black cuneiform,
perhaps a poem from the time
of Sumer or Akkad, a song
of winter’s promised passing,
or some forgotten writ of law,
though all I hear is caw on caw,
and then the silence answering.



April 2013
March 2013
Jan/Feb 2013
December 2012
November 2012
September 2012
July/Aug 2012 
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