Issue 64, Winter 1975
“Dear Mai,” I write, “All is forgiven stay there.”
Nine birds sweep down from the sky and light on the pine tree you planted last fall. The scrawny boughs crack and dip in the snow. They are larger than robins. Predominant color is black. Largely black? All black. Iridescent. In flight the center feathers of the long wedge-shaped tail are often depressed. I can’t see that; they sit. They are very noisy. Their harsh cacks are not songs.