January's lean wind
carries tumbling crows,
all flap flapping up to rearrange themselves.
Their typewriter heads hammer in the white snow
at forgotten bits of autumn.
Floating in the snow-globe field
the black hunters flail up into the sharp air
again and again.
Black wings flutter down this one time
each perfectly into place
spelling out the bold and mostly-still letters of,
"HOPE,"
A word that lifts me more than spring.
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