Save your outrage, crow,
 
for something more important
 
than the falling snow.

 
 
 

A crooked pine tree
 
atop the winter mountain
 
holds a scolding crow.

 
 
 

A crow in the oak
 
manages to croak out news
 
of a baby’s birth.

 
 
 

In your repertoire
 
you have no glad tidings, crow—
 
cold December rain.

 
 
 

A crow keeps railing
 
against the failing daylight
 
as it heads for home.

 
 
 

October twilight—
 
shrouded in thick mist, the crow
 
cannot find its tongue.

 
 
 

To the fading light
 
of an autumn afternoon
 
a crow gives its voice.

 
 
 

Sizzling afternoon—
 
into the river a crow
 
drops like Icarus.

 
 
 

on the scarecrow’s hat
 
reconnoitering the corn
 
an impudent crow

 
 
 

White paper, black ink—
 
deeper and deeper a crow
 
sinks into darkness.