crows scrape by

Pond Song 4.65

Communion does not reduce to a mystical monism. G&B 273

Atlantic warming more snow__sparrows flit through the gloom
between hedge and icewall__Thoreau’s ink froze in his room

then thawed to pearly gray__color of the sky now the pond
sunk in eye-watering glare__crows scrape by the sound

criss-crossing everywhere__there’s nothing to photograph
calls interrupt the silence__ I mean caws more than enough


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