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Show THE PATHS OF BIRDS Nothing has changed except perhaps the paths of the birds that fly overhead. For three months they have circled over the small houses lined one beside the other, but now they are gone, vanished as if the sky had suddenly yawned. Soon even the river will bare its ribs. Once it was enough to watch the mountains rise out of the evening like warm beasts, their thick shaggy bodies covered with snow. Now even the moon shines like a glass eye and winter comes at its own time, silent as a bell cord. If only you could turn to me I would listen. But your songs go out--low throated calls, calls unanswered even in firmer weather. Already the pools of brown water run into the tire ruts and freeze, and the last surviving weeds are rattling. Across |