My window shows
the oak trees great limbs
pointing upward, snow resting places
in the cold whitened air. I begin
to carry a curious indifference to
time passing, lost,
in this monotonous
pattern of middle winter days.
Some smooth bodied crows
are cawing rasped songs,
drifting by on high
wind currents. I bet
they can mix always
with never, seeing
the babies gaping mouth,
and unevenly spaced teeth the same
as graveyards
with white tombstones
in irregular rows.
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