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Is it possible to write poems about crows after Ted Hughes? I think so.
This is a new-ish one I finally finished this morning.

Landscape with crows

Crows flew low, their ominous wingspans
dark. The showy harbingers
of storm-air, they lifted up
the greyish, coppery clouds and turned
in lazy motion over the four-lane
highway and our moving car,
heading towards the dark, ridged hills,
cold as fish-gills at winter evening.

If there was light, I didn’t precisely
see it, but I felt it on
the underside of life – a ditch
of contrasts, where the cloud and shadow,
wet marsh and rising crows,
the hum of life beyond the now-stalled
traffic of my thoughts, was just
enough to hold me. In the pitch

and roll of motion: on the edge of storms.