by Kathryn T.S. Bass

The crows weigh equal each wing, strike the hour clear as scalpel. In the trees and loping two-legged on the lawn. Shards of midnight, wise to the typecast of birdsong, they shriek and squawk their love of perspective: To be an omen without losing entrails, to cast the future. Over the shoulder of the world, they're circling. Seeing, they reflect shades back at the visible world -- the silver circles: blinking and perhaps benign. Trees bounce from their heavy land and lift, reverberate dark visitors, shudder, dismembering promises. the crow penetrates flat sky, pecks its hungry shadow to life, looks at the world with one eye and then the other.

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