< Issue 5 >
Still life, with Crows
by Janet Scott McDaniel
Held by a frame of faded gold,
weak winter sun shines
through twisted oak branches,
the hill upon which they stand
falling away to mist.
Above the trees
inky black
against steel gray clouds that fill the sky
a murder of crows fly,
wings outspread,
slowly circling.
Encased in splintered wood,
through a cracked windowpane
pale yellow rays tiptoe silently
across the dusty floor,
past the scent of cobwebs
and rumpled sheets,
to lie with whispers
left upon the pillow.
It hangs askew,
paint cracking and peeling
on the aged canvas
as seasons pass without sound;
yet,
when the wind follows free
in the whispers left behind,
deep secret wisdom remains,
in their echoes
still inky black upon a steel gray sky,
crows
still fly.
Still life, with Crows
by Janet Scott McDaniel
Held by a frame of faded gold,
weak winter sun shines
through twisted oak branches,
the hill upon which they stand
falling away to mist.
Above the trees
inky black
against steel gray clouds that fill the sky
a murder of crows fly,
wings outspread,
slowly circling.
Encased in splintered wood,
through a cracked windowpane
pale yellow rays tiptoe silently
across the dusty floor,
past the scent of cobwebs
and rumpled sheets,
to lie with whispers
left upon the pillow.
It hangs askew,
paint cracking and peeling
on the aged canvas
as seasons pass without sound;
yet,
when the wind follows free
in the whispers left behind,
deep secret wisdom remains,
in their echoes
still inky black upon a steel gray sky,
crows
still fly.
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