214

A wind came up from where
  The long grass of a field bent,
Thrumming at the aperture
    Of the slightly open window
That ran along the ceiling of
      The carriage. I was looking
Down into the field when the
  Black bodies of several crows
Rose out of a cavity formed
  By the contour of the terrain,
Motionless of themselves, yet
   Rising as upon the inaudible
Command of a choreographer.

At an ebb of the upsurging wind
Their bodies seemed to fall from
        Them and begin to fragment,
So that it seemed the wind had
Invested them with structure and
Momentum, that now, dissolving
        Into the formlessness of their
Origins, they were like phrases
Of thought, living only so long
                    As they should be held.