Spoken, the Moment

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As we headed mudward
down the wood from the rock tread,
the root steps, suddenly overhead,
a little flock of ravens, their broad
black saw wings gliding arcs
above the birches, saw-cries, 'kraaks'
cutting the air into caverns of darks,
wheel on the jagged edge of broken
dreams, shard into two drifts.
                                                         Spoken
the moment, clear the sky,
as if there never were a cry -
and into the silent sigh a woodpecker 'drits'
from the next ridge.
                                       We wait for its
repetition, hushed and attent,
all our speculations spent.

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