Crow in Winter

This week I manage to write two poems about crows.

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Snow mixing with the crow's voices.
Catches the sun between the clouds.

And the one little pine is still green.
The closed blue eyes, imagine it white.

So what, if it's the tenth lie for the nineteenth.

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One crow
        is not fast enough.

To separate the sky
with one black streak.

Simply, I watch it
cross the sky and disappear.