The morning was vividly breezy,
clear blue scenes of summers chilled demise
expanded the width of futility.

Three crows in the sky, flying fast,
dipped and danced with enthusiasm,
swept sunshine into fragments,
arcing synchronized patterns
over shallowed shadows.

Do crows feel loss of season? Of reason?

Three hopes in the sky, flying high,
clipped and lanced with frustration,
wept midnight into fragments,
darking chaotic patterns
over shadowed shallows.

The morning is breezily vivid,
intense blue sense of the smallness of falls
expands the breadth of ambiguity.

Erin Moen
11/9/03
Copyright 2003 ©