The countryside’s alive with movement:
a murder of crows flies over us,
cows in a field walk in line
instead of side by side, tractor
slowly plows another field.
Cars drive by from time to time,
robins soar from tree to tree
to telephone line, which
sways under their feathery weight,
making local conversations hazy.
Branches and leaves flap in a wind
that blows circles of dust into the air,
clogs our lungs and makes us cough
until we see clouds coming fast.
We laugh and laugh—the weather’s why
we left—then dredge up stories
from the years we lived here, among
cows and plows and pines, before we
settled in a city of other movements,
found new rhythms that suit us better,
we tell ourselves over and over.
TODAY IN SLATE
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The Occupy Central demonstrators are courteous. That’s actually what makes them so dangerous.
The Religious Right Is Not Happy With Republicans
The Feds Have Declared War on Encryption—and the New Privacy Measures From Apple and Google
The One Fact About Ebola That Should Calm You
It spreads slowly.
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How White Boy Rick, a legendary Detroit cocaine dealer, helped the FBI uncover brazen police corruption.
Black people’s disdain for “proper English” and academic achievement is a myth.