two crows watch the beach

until the sea spits out a fish

flying and then dying on the sand

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two crows pick this fish

to pieces, scoff down their feast,

fly on back inland

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—the crows are lucky

all the gulls were gone—they’d have

had to fight for food:

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they’d have lost it,

weren’t it only witnessed by

a passing poet.

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Omm

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Photo by F. Oomkens