A cloud of crows
crosses the sun,
so like sagacious nails
dragged on a window screen
with casual passing.
In fits,
Summer rushes
with the sound of wings,
heats us
for the silences of winter
tinted blue and coming hard
on the browning leaves.
People watch them
in the water glass,
a shadow
of crows
makes the sun
matter all the more
when the air turns
quiet, like a heavy door closed
and locked.
The wind bends
a blade and another
and then another bends
at their shoes
with another wind
and they yearn for the return
of the crows
and what can be seen
and smelled
so near the sun.
