Friday, February 7, 2025

SOMETHING KIND OF LIKE THAT

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.