Slanting sun through barren trees laying bars of shadow
across the awe-filled after-blizzard whiteness.
A murder of crows, fifty strong and as black as the snow is white,
fills the bare silhouette limbs, announcing themselves
in a fractured chorus of their only call. It is their season.
They rule the airways of my thought.
They depart en masse confusion, a cloud of dark chaos
and stragglers, leaving behind only frozen silence.