One silky spring day
in my bare memories
presents few fine crows
perched on light picket posts.
Gilded yet dark,
the birds spoke in shrills.
Had I looked away,
my mind be pure filth.
An orchestra,
all for me.
The hills swayed,
much with the trees.
But time's no fool,
the sky grew death.
A jolt of light,
a new scene set.
How quick it turned,
the blue gone too soon.
But on they went,
with transient tunes.
Yet, after not too long,
The bluster chewed land.
I woke from my glance.
The troupe had no disband.
I feared them with no chance.
Then,
A pale strike it was,
all I can remember.
It slammed its poor body,
so tough, so impishly,
how rough, how inimically.
Its feathers flew,
desperate to escape frightful peace.
Its beak dove down,
an Olympic performance to cease.
And so,
it flew right deep into tender ground.
And what's left of bitter sound,
is all to be ever seen,
yet never found.