The crows are still asleep, though morning has made her introductions and apologies. Leaves, bound only by frost, float off at the warm touch of her arrival. At the edge of the field the corn shakes off the night breath, while the river lingers over her song of the ones who roam and thread the sinewy moonlight of this ancestral valley. For a moment, nothing moves; then the oily air spatters with cartwheeling crows while on wires and treetops other crows start shouting punchlines to jokes they can’t ever remember.
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