A centimeter or so of snow lies on the telephone wire outside the bedroom window. At eye-level it looks like a narrow ridge of mountains.
A cheerful man appears to be greeting people in the street, but he is not looking at anyone in particular. You cannot hear what he says, if he says anything. But he smiles, raises one arm in the air , makes a thumbs-up sign, or spreads both his arms in a gesture of welcome. People think he is addressing them, and then look away when they realize he isn't, disappointed or perhaps relieved.
Says Mr Crow: "this is my grove of trees;
I strut here to peck my lunch from the soft ground.
It is mine and, Mrs Crow, you are my Eve".
"Yes, dear," says she.
"But when I fly with my black, heavy wings,
Up to that tree, Mrs Crow, and look beyond,
I see the world, and that too, is mine".
"Yes dear", says she.