The Crows

The crows sat in the poplars,
For the sun’s last light;
They turned slowly,

As if waiting for the night —
It was something we had.
Yet they took no pains,

To croak out their minds,
Nor give a shout,
They simply shifted

In their dark outlines,
and went up front.
The heart of a poet—

Has an edge to its
fluttering wings
Like a crow placed in sound,

That hovers over the ground
without any decision.

—Lola Ridge

• Lola Ridge