poetry by Christina Linsin

That small patch of brightness 
on the autumn hillside is not
what the whole murder of crows
which flocks to it this morning thinks it is - 
discarded, machined treasure, wind-polished,
left to feed the rust and hide the wood rats,
both of which thrive under those trees.

It is a rock; I have been to it many times.
Wizened gray, hollowed in its middle, 
tilted just right not only to catch but to hold 
last night’s rain and offer it,
like bright coins from gentle hands, 
to the savvy crows, who dip their heads, 
noisily, and fill their thirsty beaks.

Christina Linsin is a poet and teacher in western Virginia. Her poetry examines connections with the natural world, the complexities of mental illness, and the difficulty of creating meaningful connections amid life’s obstacles. Her work has been published in tiny wren lit, The Milk House, and Stone Circle Review.  

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