A woman is sweeping her porch
as if life depended on it,

dowsing for counsel
through the press

of an old broom, through
some small sure act

she can be certain
does no harm.

Wind rouses, loosening leaves
from even the stiffest branches,

and sets the tiny
green boat on the bay

rocking like our wavering
scales of justice.

She could be paddling
herself across. Wind

sweeps the porch. A crow
who walked the plank

bobs on one quivering
wrist of pine ---

springs off, as if to dive,
but rises.