The call compels the course: a thousand crows pulse a skyway pale and fading with the day's failing, caught fast in winter's thrall. To river, bound in winter's keeping, a thousand crows, stark, shadow the snow, leaf bereft trees with their landing, while river stands white, locked in stillness below. To river, to river, the crows careen, streaming in answer through the ice-green air, and though the cold speeds me, too, homeward, I can only stand and stare.