shot glass
"... brevity is the soul of wit ..."
- William Shakespeare

George Freek

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In Late November

(After Li Shangyin)

As always winter means snow.
Skeletons stare eyelessly
at a desolate sky, searching
among distant stars,
where dreams abide.
Crows look for rotting bones.
But as wind swirls around them,
they scatter like leaves.
Do they seek warmth or food?
I can't interpret
a crows enigmatic moods.
The stars look down,
but not in prayer.
Life is never certain
they seem to say,
for crows as well as men.