Richard Jones
Boundaries / After Ma Chih-Yuan

If the crow
perched on the dead branch
of the apple tree,
his back to the dark,
sees the sun setting
behind the ridge of pines,
the broken fence where a skinny horse
searches for grass,
the spring brook flowing
between the road and my house,
then he also sees me
opening my door and crossing
the rickety little bridge
that connects me to the world.