In the folding horizon,
a bare tree,
branches like the stiff undersea coral
I once found on a Hawaiian beach,
dried out, twig-like, sculpted
to hold something bigger than it.
From far away, the crows
look like fruit,
perched there,
small and ruffled,
pressed into themselves,
warm feathers in the wind.
As I’m watching,
a line of geese
flow over,
their wings broad and dark,
surfacing from the clouds
like rocks in a river.
Again, and again,
hundreds of geese,
and the crows begin to rise,
and scatter in different directions,
the sky awakened,
a wave of wings,
black and white,
and going,
and going.
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