Blackberry Farm In the black garden, crows, crows, everywhere black crows. The ground under them is soft; it seems to breathe, the roof is high and low at once.

Children run around in the sun and the rain, alternating, like the day, a coming of night or day. A cottage full of sweetness, a cottage full of flowers.

But we are old now, do you know: We’ve known too many blackbirds, too many crows in the garden.

Do you remember where the flowers grew? Let’s remember, let’s remember.

• Langston Hughes