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Posts Tagged ‘crow’

 

 

 

surrounded by the most

lovely silence

the crow

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funny how much more beautiful it was
when I thought it was a hawk riding the air,
that crow

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Nine More Black Birds

every day
meeting the world
without a theory

*

to catch a crow
the Greeks set out a dish of oil, the birds
dipped their wings in a longing for company

*

all those dreams dead
and rotting beside the road—
great day to be a scavenger

*

why would anyone
catch a crow I say to my hand
as it grasps

*

these thoughts
so blue a crow
wings through

*

I put a scarecrow
in my thoughts, on his gray hat
a crow often comes to sit

*

five animals in Islam
can be killed with no blame
I don’t know the other four

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okay, crow,
I say, let’s have it your way,
awe, awe, awe

*

listening to the crow
the whole world
is crow

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No words so perfect
as the crow.
Although I try.
to verbalize
the changing color
of its eyes,
the widening circles
of its calls,
the syllables
deny me. Only
crows can fly
on wings so black
they’re light. And words,
well I adore
those, too, the wrestling
with, the humbling
by, but moreso
I do love
(oh hush)
the crow.

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alongside the cliff
keeping pace with my car
the blue heron

*

flying blackbird
dead mouse in its beak
this too is peace

*

more wind
than woman
this flesh

*

midnight
even the whitest lilies
are blue

*

sharing breath
with the crow
the whole world is crow

*

in the nest,
two blue eggs
two wide brown eyes

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It would take weeks
to walk to your house, still
our hearts so close.

*

This morning I ski
into the woods—forty years
later I ski out.

*

The snow did not stop
when I said stop, but it did
not fall forever.

*

Across the lake
invisible in the trees,
the crow in my ear.

*

That ripple
never travels and it is
always new water.

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the wind blows
both ways at once
my thoughts, too

*

fingers covered
in syrup my daughter reaches
to hug me

*

me and the falling snow
both of us
shadowless today

*

crow in the empty
tree, it did not sing to me
like a crow

*

in evergreens
drifting snow and how can it be?
scent of lilac

*

rushing to dance
with the moon, I tripped
on my own wanting

*

January and I
recall over tea we forgot
to make resolutions

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six

too many to count
petals on the orchard floor
he loves me?

*

rusted lock
in the heart’s back pocket
a spare key

*

snow on the ridges
come spring what else
will be missing?

*

almost asleep
these hands still kneading
soft dough

*

he talks
and talks and talks and talks
about listening

*

no temple bells
still the crow goes on
about awe, awe

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We follow the call. It leads us deeper and deeper.
—Joi Sharp

Inside, I think I hear the call of crow,
and walk outside to find where it is singing.
Crow is nowhere to be seen, no winging
cross the blue. Not in the trees. And no
more song. I listen. Listen. Listen. Oh!
I hear it there, through pinions, a small hinging
in the air, and try to follow, swinging
my legs over cactus patches, deer scat, snow,
an old barbed wire fence strung low, what’s that?
Another bird. What’s that? A hidden creek.
Where is the crow? I stop, perch on a stone.
Caw. I startle, looking for the black
outline of bird. It’s here, I think, and meet
my shadow, flapping in the sun, alone.

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