Crow time comes; November snow
Sifts down; the sky is
monochromeous.
River birch waves his arms,
thinking
I should be warned, not
knowing
What I should be warned
about.
My hand rehearses warding
gestures,
The wrist turning just so,
the fingers
Twisting and untwisting in
rapid sequence.
Things invisible to see
strain to hear
Night’s dim heart, knocking
irregularly.
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