Crows feasting,
the pasture their table.
Waddling, hopping the lumps,
straddling gopher piles,
gaming each other
with beak nips of air,
territorially.

a 3 poem day.
hummingbird at dawn,
at the top most point
of the tree beside me,
singing singing.
i enjoyed her greatly from high
in the pine tree where i watched
waves piling against rock.
chubby swell, at last,
what a winterless winter.

and in the firesong above
following the disappearance of the sun
thousands of crows,
the local posse,
comical and loud,
held their evening ritual
all flying the same direction
to greet the night

3 poems
red wine
i’m here, sewing together
the passing of light from yesterday
to today
into tomorrow

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