Perched in an oak, a crow.
Then, beneath, two more. They rhyme
to sorrow, daughter.
Death has a way of making things magical.
Or at least -- senseless.
It's not a reasonable world.
I think the dead are with us.
Shells are their currency. This cowrie
in the landlocked dust must
have slipped from some pocket.
Too small to be held to the ear, it is an ear.
Lost and pressed
to the ground.
