10 October 2005

A. R. Ammons

[from Brink Road by A. R. Ammons]


The crows during
warm fall spells
work their way up

whatever direction
the wind will be coming from
the next windy day

so they can bound downslope
cawing long surprises, dipping at
one another, folding their

wings and like splendid
trash skimming the woods:
when it’s gold and red

and windy and they fall out
of the north, the exhilaration

never to have been earned and they
seem to take the fall for
the only kind, the only one.

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