the crows care little
for the mist

the snowmelt
or the palleted rain

they call
and carve the air

above the park
where do they go

after dark?
in their night silence

what do they think about?
elsewhere

something stirs
from its winter slumber

elsewhere
something uncoils

from its tight darkness
do not concern yourself

with the heavy details
of life

with the weight
of things

that sometimes swing
against you

find a place
with quiet light

and sing