A fluttering of other lives
busy nesting out of reach—
dry thatches stashed on beams
under eaves like apartments
with squabbling, feathers floating,
on and on—as we lumber
beneath them, intertwined.
Crows claim the tops
of power poles on 65
through rolling hills of oats,
stacks of sticks close to roadkill—
adapting quickly to our urgencies,
to these forgotten outposts
of railroad towns
growing closer together.
drycrikjournal 
How many pass by but never see
LikeLike