"what should i do?" the crow asked the cat

       the cat purr, their eyes gleaming, "oh, flightless bird, that is a wonderful to ask but it would be better to ask yourself on what you want to do. "

Nobody but me and my crow.


A black crow flies at night, hidden high above the city lights.
Looking down on us all, like we are beneath it as it soars.
Nobody knows the crow’s thoughts, but we want to so we try;
But our own interpretation of the crow in the sky,
Shows us no truth at all.


Flying past the moon, it is gone before we know;
As it falls down towards the ground, is it in its death throes?
Or is it safe and sound as it catches the air like an arrow?
As the people walk below, alone, they are lead forward by its shadow.


In the middle of the night when all is dead to the world,
I can hear the crow calling out into the void.
High and low it has been searching for an unknown mate;
Now, as I see them, they are an omen of a future destroyed.


Now as I stand here preparing for death,
I struggle for thoughts and gasp at a breath.
As my body shivers under the moon, I fall;
Snow underfoot, through an empty forest I crawl.


Death is in the air.
Nobody left to meet in this forest.
They are all gone to nowhere;
So there is nobody left to save my soul
And nobody left to care.


(C)2016 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.

Bent over the painted lines of her road.
Stood a black feathered crow
peeling back a tendon of flesh,
Like a strand of red twizzler candy,
from the tannish white fur
of a dead bunny.

she thought this was cute.

"AWW! THEY'RE KISSING!!"

Her daddy did not correct her.

This memory, he revisits every time she brings a new boy home.
Debates internally,
the tipping scales that balance ignorance and optimism.
If maybe he should have explained the beauty in death, rather than let her beleive her illusions.
The beauty in nature, the circle of life.

Like a cat, she brings home dead animals

Like the owner of a cat,
He is unimpressed.

Maybe if he told her the bunny was dead, she would stop offering herself to the crows.

The moon glints off a starry lake in the inky blackness of night.
I sneak a guilty look as I slip out of my room into quite dark.
The shrill call of crickets accompany the creaking floor as I slip my way down the dark hall.
My attention is caught by the silhouette of a crow sitting in the open window.
I shiver from a chill breeze as I slip my way past.
My feathery shadow hops from the windowsill and haunts my quiet footsteps.
It watches with greedy eyes as I slip a loaf of bread from a dark shelf.
It’s eyes glow as the glinting cutting knife slices smoothly through unressisting dough.
The bread, my starving need; the crow, a sick urge.

Cautiously, I give the crow a piece of bread, though my subconscious cries realizes the consequences.
As long as the crow can grow fat from my weakness, it will never let me go.
I see in the reflection of glossy black eyes, the glint of the cutting knife as it rises and falls again.
I feed myself.
The crow caws in growing anticipation of the feast to come; or perhaps it's my own projection onto the unsated bird.

The crow comes back each night.
It knows where to come to feast.
You could say that we've become quite close to each other.
With every flash of a cutting knife, the crow shudders with excitement.
Rushing blood, Classical conditioning.
I slice the bread, and feed myself again.

The cawing crow,
Object of strife,
Does have its place
Here in this life.
Its hue is dark
Its numbers rife.
It sounds of caw
And not a fife.
To the farmer
And to his wife,
The crow is but
A fowl most trife.

lost boy where do you go
when the sun is hiding
lost boy
you say your'e alone
but you aren't willing to let your fear go
lost boy
i hope you know that i will be here
and won't let go
lost boy
i see the black crow
latched onto your weakened soul
lost boy
that crow he tells you so
that if you go no one will know
oh
lost boy
i hate that crow