by John DesCamp

The crows of winter,
sleek, sooty scavengers of the outer edges,
drift rudely out of the oyster sky
and stalk my lawn,
looking for food or, maybe,
just the bloody amusement
of bullying a few worms
on this weekend afternoon.

It’s late in the shortest month.
Days are longer,
the midnight blue of dawn and dusk
more widely spaced each day.
My own blacks and blues
keep time with the sun as it climbs and sinks;
but they have other partners
and dance with all of them.

Summer came late this year;
in November, I think it was.
When I can let myself believe
her fierce determined love, her
auburn sun floats over me
and the crows, the black crows
with their blue companions,
keep a wary distance.

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