The crows…

Cold, spring crispness,

gravel crunches underfoot,

a scattered cupful of sugar.

“Tall cathedral-spire cypresses loom ahead.”

Look up!

Crows are playing falling-leaf,

first one, then another,

tossing themselves against

spring-solid air,

calling joyously,

tumbling, then

at the last moment

catching on wing,

they labour back

to the top branch.

I walk by, earthbound,

wishing to be with

the crows.

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