For Thanksgiving, a serving of crows.

I wrote the poem “2020” earlier this year. Its first line:

            It was a season of crows.

While on one of my morning walks this past summer, I encountered a murder(1) of crows, bouncing and talking (2) on a deep green field under the blue sky of a cloudless young day.

I was immediately struck by the contrast of their jet-black bodies against the green. When some of them took to flight, the contrast against the blue was equally dramatic.

As I...

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