by Ray Greenblatt
Winds scour Marsh Creek Lake
and rip at stray stone walls
no longer knowing what
they kept out or in.
Myth has it that fish
lie on the bottom
disguised as mud balls.
Trees have dropped all their
summer camouflage.
Four old crows each on
brittle tree branch
talk things over in
their raspy argot.
Fox out of its den
forages for short time
before snowflakes whirl.
Tomorrow lake surface
might be walkable.
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