Tuesday, December 9, 2008

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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