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...Read more