I walk from the copy center
into an empty plane of falling
snow, everything black and white.
Overhead a stream of crows Xerox
a path through porous
skies draping every edge, tipping
sky to ground, uprooting
ground to sky. From nothingness
the birds rise in the North and swell
toward the blur of the South. The raw edge
of their call punctuates
deafening snow, and I stand
like an exclamation
mark, knowing this flight through
white density will be
one of a kind.
– Lynore G Banchoff
