Crows roost at dusk, disperse at dawn,
Lumber away as a noisy cortege.
After years of use the millstone is a mirror.

Behind dark chalk hutching,
Behind a shadow-land of pines,
The visible sky glows like bland paper.

If the past were honey
One could scrape it away
With the flat of a knife and be done with sweetness.

https://harborsofheaven.wordpress.com/2015/08/20/crow-work-by-eric-pankey/