Winter trees,

The warmest part

Where the sun lays

Tongue on bark,

Bare and free from



In a park, roughage

Strewn like clover


Trees cracking in mood

Unrivaled by the browning



The street caught in

A rare nude moment

Sun spitting at it, revealing

A relevant comparison,

A compassion found only

In memory of what was

And what will be


Perched  well above both

Street and tree, several

Ravens caw as their heads

On swivel find points of interest


A horn sounds, the revelation

Cracked, like the street and

The tree


The birds move head and wing

Toward some other empty scene

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