Two shiny crows fly off—ahead of my windshield as I drive down the street into morning—they veer over rooftops below.

Crows flap ragged windy-wings like the well-used books of the mountains and the books of gray clouds massed over the mountains.

My books are dusty, sullen, furtive with wind-blown ideas and damp glories like the black twig claws of crows’ feet, flashing perfect little eyes.

I like how what the crow does next or says roils the lives indexed in the texts—their flying makes the books shuffle, lean away. As I go to work.

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