Crow on the ground—
In his pecking lob sidle walk,
Struts with airs unlanding
On the sleeping lawns.
His black eyes are sideways,
Eyeing me as I watch—
What a rude intruder.
Is it me or is it he?
I make my coffee—
At a window into his world,
He waits, wades with indifference,
Goading the flighty songbirds.
The blackness moves—
With the dimming, trailing sun,
So many things left unknown,
Crown on the ground.
Feb 23, 2015
Feb 23, 2015 at 11:24 AM UTC
Crow on the ground—
In his pecking lob sidle walk,
Struts with airs unlanding
On the sleeping lawns.
His black eyes are sideways,
Eyeing me as I watch—
What a rude intruder.
Is it me or is it he?
I make my coffee—
At a window into his world,
He waits, wades with indifference,
Goading the flighty songbirds.
The blackness moves—
With the dimming, trailing sun,
So many things left unknown,
Crown on the ground.
