two crows watch the beach
until the sea spits out a fish
flying and then dying on the sand
*
two crows pick this fish
to pieces, scoff down their feast,
fly on back inland
*
—the crows are lucky
all the gulls were gone—they’d have
had to fight for food:
*
they’d have lost it,
weren’t it only witnessed by
a passing poet.
*
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*
Omm
*
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Photo by F. Oomkens
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