by ted jean
Marsha throws on her jacket, jumps the fence where it is bent the december field is bare she stalks the erstwhile rye beside the dogwood brush and hazelnut pheasants startle the ditches stubble and mud require care, to get precisely nowhere our girl bestrides the only stump field Marsha: cows astonished, the crow crowd loud with scandal way off, the lights of Ashland rise on the solstice circles she back, black, to the dark house
“Crow” is from Crow Sonnets.