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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