High crow and low crow
ply the light above the river,
rising and falling against the neon backdrop alder.
One seems the shadow of the other,
disjunct in their dithering
as a fish with its refraction on a riffled pond.
Are they husband and wife crow?
Where do they go?
Some farcical mission, doubtless,
as they are, after all, crows.
We are driving upriver the opposite way,
Amy staring off into the spruce shadow
and sunlight strobe, possibly deep in thought.
Or not. Hard to know.
