I watched some crows this very eve,
Play upon a blustery, early November breeze.
Wave upon wave of those corvid beasts,
Now going west, now going east.
Now rising up, now darting down,
Now racing east,
Now tacking west.
No sailor on the seven seas
Can tack so well as one of these.

Now up, now down
Now left, then down.
One flies north
Another south, then darts east.
Yet flock drifts by despite these feats.
Another joins in synchronous dance
Then up, then down, then back again
Waving together till parting perchance.
Then each alone, up,
Then down, then back again.

Some stall for several ***** and blows,
Remaining still to trees below,
Then a feather's twitch
Banks into the wind

And soar, ...... soar, ..... soar,
Soar away.

Down a ***** only birds can know
Racing faster than the wind
Above the trees below.

*It seems so wasteful, this fighting of the wind,
Futile and vain as a skein does not.
It's not hunting, I think, nor ***,
Except perhaps for showing off.
But I suspect play at play.
Jonathon Seagull's desire, it seems
Infects these playful playing memes.

Perhaps I see play where there is no play,
Projecting wishes onto senses.
But corvids do play, it seems.
Do you too so seem?
Perhaps they even dream.