Crows On My Path
I watched two crows
on a wooded path
Along the river
swollen with the spring
The stained waters
bubbling in its
bends
Two crows strutting
like old men
In black suits
arrogant with
swagger
Take a flight together
to a barren perch
This has been a
long season of
crows
Their caws echoing
along the solitary
Pathos of me always
in smow and rain
The sun was bright
and sky clear
The grass turned
green in an instant
Buds on trees foiled
by white clouds
Yet I see crows
flying still from path
To tree like dark
dreams they float
With night on
outstretched wings
I am deaf today to
the water ripling
In river current and
song birds calling
From tall trees
washed in sunlight
All I hear are two crows cawing from
The highest bone
white limbs of a
Symcamore
Refusing to be
silenced by spring
December Woods
Alone on a
wooded path
Under a winter
sky of heavy
clouds
Watching the
river run
washday gray
Along bare
banks of black
soil
Spotted with
withered
leaves
And small
patches of
snow
Water boiling
over half
sunken
Tree trunks is
all I hear,
As thoughts
suddenly stop
And all the
inner voices
Fall into silence for a
moment,
And confusion
is squirrels
Rustling in
fallen leaves
and
My anger is
crows sitting
On gaunt
winter
branches
Like malignant
growths