One for the Blackbird, One for the Crow

by Olivia Hawker

The seasons don’t cease to change because we haven’t the time to plant or tend or harvest, because grief like a hailstorm comes up sudden and frightens us with its noise. Once the storm rolls on, the fields remain, and life goes on, whatever we prefer.

One for the blackbird, one for the crow, one for the cutworm, and one to grow.