In the dun stumps

of shorn corn, the soil

ice-laced, almost smeary,

a crow bobs, feasting.

Or not crow—rather

crow’s shape cut

from the rough corn field,

behind which hangs a blackness

supple and true:

a blackness that was

before crow, or field,

or I. When the shape stills,

I could climb into it;

but, not wanting now

to sleep, I let

the shape again

go crow. So the husks

keep on dropping

from the beak.

So the earth goes on urging,

in spite of it all,

a slow, brown thaw.