Without much
intention, old crows
swoop in
on the bracing
wind to colonize
a sycamore's dead branches—
but in just the right
shadow at the denouement
of day,
it seems reasonable to say
that together,
they resemble
those whorls of black
in the final line which
closes out an emblem poem—
coming
out of seeming
nowhere
to confound our fear
with the thrill
of the unknown.
