In the spirit of [amazon 0865475911 inline] and my upcoming flight to the Midwest for a high school reunion and relative binge, this week's poetry selection is one of my own. As you can see, I've always had this thing about crows.
The wind came out and blew her down the road
Her coat skirts wrapped around her knees.
She moved alone between the cold fields of corn stubble and
Black choppy seas of fall-plowed land.
The houses were set back from the road.
They were too far for comfort.
And none of them were hers.
Storm crows settled between the black furrows,
Then flew before her.
She pulled her coat closer and stared at the cold tar and
Stones before her feet
Counting her steps, one, two three, four, five six,
Up to one hundred.
Then she stopped and looked about
To see how far she'd come.
But there is farther yet to go than she can see.
The autumn land does not take in strangers and
The road stops only at the sky.