WINTER LANDSCAPE

                           

                        Along a line of low hills where

                        Dark pine and oak stripped to winter runes

                        Glint in the cold as if carved from stone,

                        A flock of black birds scores the air,

                        Crackling like static, and disappears.

                        In a hoarse whisper the wind dies down.

                        Field and pasture lie brown and bare

                        Beneath the moon's high, soundless soaring.

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Photo from bluejaybarrens.blogspot.com
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