A thin scrim of ice floating Cold Spring Pond
separates yesterday's late fall from today's early winter

bright blue
fringed in evergreen day,
a booted
in russet and grey day

a still day broken here there

by a crow's
rough cry shoved across the bare branched ridge top
down into a meadow now a sudden yellow

and brittle.

When they
consider us
if they
consider us
do they
consider us...

probably not
as we might wish
either in selective

or fear.

Such a bad reputation, the crow.