The crows voice
   comes close
then moves away.

The black crows
 of imagination
     walk on 
white snow drifts
leaving tiny prints
       behind.

      Silence
lasts for minutes.
Nail gun sounds
in the distance
put tiles down
   on a roof
     over a
     kitchen.

    The family 
 rushes through
the house moving
  shirts and shoes
and silverware and
      soap.

  Morning turns
      its head. 
Dark brush strokes
      of winter 
  fill another sky.