I saw that crow one misting morn
scrabbling low with beakish scorn
his tailored coat splat dappled grey
the beading eye he cast my way

The plumage pale yet marks him out
no brother to the dark and stout
for mourning coat he'd gladly trade
the stabs and pecks of darkling babes

'gainst weathered rug of autumn mush
this feathered lozenge amidst the brush
knows his place at margins bare
without a friend, without a care