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.

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