written on piece of wood in the middle of a storm

wetsilver

The crows fly in sprawling clouds like schools of fish over the vast white of road and snow. They keep moving so as not to freeze, the trees creaking with the icy weight. Wings fighting off the cling beating the moister free. Like an exhale of smoke the gyre of their bodies move together as one. Their small hearts beat a frenzied tune in the eerie hour of new day. The first moments burn in the night, the space where sorrow peaks, waning towards the light hidden in expectation. As long as their wings and hearts keep moving against the cold they’ll see the light bridge the sea as a shy smile from across a room.

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