Don Thompson

Bad Afternoon

 

The sky’s too low and solid,

a failed shade of bluish

plaster.  Clouds

scrape their backs against it,

but keep drifting.

 

Everything else holds still

as if, like us,

always thinking too much—

not sure what to do next.

 

Trees wait for the wind

to move them, unmoved.

 

Finally one crow, fed up,

swats at the thick air

and shoves its way out of sight.

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