000001 #human Maybe a crow. Like one of the seven that were eating the bread scraps in front of the house this morning. In the snow. The wretched, crusty snow. Tire-gray and listlessly worried by the sun, the shot snow sits as pathetically self-referent as I. We both hide railroad tracks. We both melt a little when salted. We both we both we both fell from the sky and are never going back . . . . Or are we? In another form, on another day, in another recombination, when we are evaporated and we go to join the rest of the pollution up there. It's ten seventeen. Time for a nap or more coffee?