Feeding thirsty leaves, the grapes
paint the concrete oily yellow;
& they keep unique pastel glow
e’en when wrinkled by dry age.
Get’n to business pecks the crow,
front & back, that beaky drummer;
no concern that e’en in summer
faded mountains still smell like snow.
But that sun was far too distance;
now there’s shade. The fact, though, is that
still these crows get down to business.