Crows hang on dried cornstalks, black against yellow. It’s November, once again, only this time that worry that this is the last time they will see this vast lake sky is outside of their heads. They’ve had a year of cancer, and now they have this whole long day before them, driving the long dipping road— the way it curves into tree shadows, and something just ahead, a yellow re-cycling bin, lying on its side, waiting in the middle of the road, with its wide mouth open. They see what lies ahead, without question; yet, they drive straight into it.
City. River. Tree. 