BY JEANNETTE NICHOLS

One day
like no other
Vermont
undefined in early mists
into which we woke
in a tent
my Father and I
and moved in our damp bones
around woodsmoke
while the mists burned away
and three crows flew over
knowing everything;

one morning like no other my Father with eyes full of woodsmoke and tears and I
trampling Vermont’s indistinct wet grass
saw those crows fly over
in dry dark shapes,
felt three
flickering shadows
cross our faces
as quick as love.