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.