In the morning, I hear the crows.

There is much that they demand.

As water drips into snow,

they peck at dead limbs.

There are strange new trails on the roofs.

The evening bore scavengers.

As distant sun lights the clouds,

dark claws grip branches.

It is the eve of a holiday.

I should be sleeping, or at rest.

But the crows have awoken me.

Snow melts and I listen.

Better to touch the trail of a dream.

Better to contemplate, eyes shut.

Too long have I listened here.

Fickle ghosts march away.

In the leaves is dead September.

Tomorrow waits beneath the soil.

A hardened layer is the barrier

as we skate between three worlds.