Old Crow

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The sky is my bridge,
Quiet flows the streaming,
Unstoppable conveyors of
Gravitational dreaming;
It is the weeping way

Cool flints capture blues & grey,
Quick lime horse hair seashell towers,
Earth burnished, oak boxed,
Lay forgotten translucent flowers;
Feint madrigals breathe

Words are the falling leaves,
Blown over once green fields,
From mans twisting tree,
They slip & slide through nights sheild;
Between the blinding light

Old crow wisdom might,
Love lyrical orginal magic,
Scrape and smooth the sky,
Salving tears of the tragic;
Cross hopes running lines

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One thought on “Old Crow

  1. Forgive me if I have to chuckle; old crow is a familiar.

    I love the leafy words fallen from twisted trees – so very much! A chorus in fall, silent in winter, brought forth in the spring, and unfurled under summer skies.

    It should be created on paper, me thinks.

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