Here is the strict, abstract
light of winter. From a bare branch
a crow takes flight, rising
heavily, overcoming
the impossible. Snow
sifts from its branch.
A white shawl.
Thousands of separate flakes.
The bird has moved to another tree,
cawing harshly, though I can
barely hear it, with the windows
locked in place
against the cold. So the mind
remains at a distance
from its concerns,
its uncertain desires-
nothing to think of, or to say,
nothing truly seen until later.
A Crow
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