a crow sits on treetop between two bouts of ephemeral snow

wind marches
over the green-less tops
of occasional oaks and larches

he sits, all ruffled
beady-eyed, watchful,
face close to the wind

the grey patches overhead
run amok, scattering the hoard
of blue the sky protected so hard

his colleagues gather
in other trees, taking top places,
discussing the recent, waiting

for something to crop up,
something tasty and fun,
something to add

to forty years
of survival and solitude,
and ever-increasing presence among men

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