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.