Condensation convolutes my vision
making it hard to see the fog-blooming tree.
The crow flies up it (as the crow flies)
and seeks a perch on its uppermost bough.
The tree barren, surrounded by malignant ultramarine
skies seems to be as isolated, as alone as I am.
The corvid wings aflap rise to it
as if to signal its demise under darkening thunder-dense
skies. But it and I
and I and it
will fight to live
and live to fight
as long as we see fit.
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