A
murder of crows gathers on branches
of
the stately sycamore tree replacing
its
fallen leaves. A black cawing swarm
then
takes flight into overcast skies of gray.
Another
winter is on its way. And a thought
arises
in me nearing my seventy-second
year—I
hope and pray I shall not wander
into
the coming seasons, however many
they
may be, grieving the loss of cherished
memories
such as these.
Chris
Hanch 12-6-18
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