TRIOLET IN BLACK AND WHITE


The crows are smoking dark cigars,
their ashes spill upon the ground,
the snow’s white gauze hides burns and scars.
Those crows who smoke their black cigars—
you’d think they came in hired cars,
the way they throw their weight around.
The crows draw deep their cheap cigars,
their ashes trash the snowy ground.
~Barbara Crooker
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