five ravens are berry-picking
the palm tree fruit
bunched like grapes
hanging heavy off the bent
fishing pole of a stem
beaks snap the black berries
some falling around me
as I walk under
their gurgle and cries
between swallows
one large bird peels away
its charcoal cutout against
the late afternoon sun
I wonder why the older
ones never turn gray
when a single black feather
of his descends
in dying loops to earth
like a hair falling
off the head
of a mystery
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