I never knew a dreary rook
whose trill is absent from my ear.
A crow ashamed of its black
that brushes wet paint to change its color.
A bird that builds nests from razors and plastic
who abandons forests for streets
and brothers for cold nights.

Perhaps it did not survive.
Perchance it dove into the ocean
to find eternity within its form.

A melancholy avian was not meant for this world,
for no other song is fit to fill the morning’s air.