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The Same Crow

Out in the world a single crow
delivers in its raucous voice
the first rough promise of spring.
The cool wind supports
this harbinger that glides
on its black wing above
fields where the sun pulls
gently on the snow.

And we, roughly in our rush,
push and plough the slush
into the gutter and wish
winter down the drain.

Each day, more people talk
of smelling spring and how
they feel the urge to walk,
despite the chilling air.

I hear the crow,
I hear the talk,
I walk and slush
sticks to my boots.

This spring differs from the last;
my hand trembles on my coat.
The crow and sun might be the same,
but I am not.

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The Cat

The cat flows softly
through the grass, freezes
on some creature sound
I cannot hear.

A crow signals a warning.
A gust fusses through the trees.

The heartbeat of this moment
lifts a paw, cleans between his toes
then stretches.

The watery sun cascades
through the chattering leaves,
spills onto the grass
and I am able to move.