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Crow
In the dun stumps
of shorn corn, the soil
ice-laced, almost smeary,
a crow bobs, feasting.
Or not crow—rather
crow’s shape cut
from the rough corn field,
behind which hangs a blackness
supple and true:
a blackness that was
before crow, or field,
or I. When the shape stills,
I could climb into it;
but, not wanting now
to sleep, I let
the shape again
go crow. So the husks
keep on dropping
from the beak.
So the earth goes on urging,
in spite of it all,
a slow, brown thaw.
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Photo Credit—L. Weingarten