--Michael WatersAgainst the snow they're silhouettes,These crows, how many hundredsBurdening branches, theseBlunt-scissors-&-construction-paperKindergarten cut-outs, theseRorschach blots, sloppy calligraphy,Or jagged wounds, the sky torn,But not political, if that's possible.Then a blast scatters the murder& any direction they flee is wrong.Smoke on the hillside. The soldierStares, rifle tensed on one shoulder.He's looking me over, wondering who I am.I've seen this scene in films, Russian novels,Old Master oils, Pathé newsreels.Or on CNN—smoke in the city,Schoolchildren scattered among rubble—If that's possible—or blue sky, shade trees,Suburban sprawl. The police car stops.The boy stares. How many hundreds.One caw, then silence.Something horrible about to happen.
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