Crows Cry in Slate Sky

Bushes bend forward
As they peer across the road
Waiting for the cars.








Thick bramble bushes;
Last desiccated apple;
Crows cry in slate sky.

Paper bits on bark
Above the swirling wood grain
Mark where the sign was.

Propped like a cannon
The dead tree aims for the road.
It will surely miss.








Shroud of the tree limbs
Veiling the old dead tree stump
Give it privacy.








With the trees bare now
Living and dead look the same;
Pre-winter limbo.

Perched on bent tree limbs:
Old bird's nest like a castle;
King and queen have flown.

Small bird on wire;
As I reach for my camera,
Bugger flies away.