when winter
is a thin and haggard ghost,
and streets are clogged
with slow-going cars and
closed-lipped
commuters going
through their weary motions—
even the chalkwhite,
supposedly empty
treasure trove of
bracing-cold sky is
not so—even the notion,
say, of barrenness,
or vacancy
is choked
with the desiccated
caws of old crows,
which ricochet
off surfaces too
salt-caked for snow,
driving me further
and further away
from recalling
some sentimental snatch
of a poem.
