A crow on a dead tree
jumps from branch to branch
his wings and tail
in constant motion
as if to shake away
what bothers it
above the flow of water
the tree dead to green buds below
the crow next to white birch
the still air to the flash of water
a coil of threes
ripples this valley
to deter this sleep
this sleep of the alone
Copyright © 2011 by Barry G. Wick
Posts
A Poetics of Cold
6 years ago
No comments:
Post a Comment