Ancient Script

By Robert Morgan

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.

 

This article available online at:

http://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2013/04/ancient-script/309245/