(inspired by "Gifts of the Most High" by G Alan Johnson.)

The crows know me, and I, in their untamed glares,
and wild, accepting, onyx eyes find a solace.

No need for ID, for they’ve been watching me,
my face, yet unetched by time and life's own artistry,
is a passport for their uncivilized and predatory attention.

The corvid and I are kindred in many ways.
We've all scavenged for fortune's scraps,
shared the sting of bitter winter snaps,
and feasted on the meager leavings of the day.

In this dark pact, of watcher and watched,
a silent truth is proclaimed, that all that’s done
beneath the sun, is seen by dark, intuitive,
discerning, if not caring or humanly wise eyes.

The carrion crows know me,
and those feathered sentinels of air, mark
my coming with raucous, heralding cries.

They gather, black against the sun-kissed sky,
in councils held upon the wind's swift motions,
like children, they argue - observing still - as they play.

They causa no fear, but someday I’ll disappear,
unraveled, bit by bit, not by malice from on high,
but by beaks and claws, to caws they mantric-like cry.

Perhaps death really does have an ebonite beauty
and, like angels, his servants have wings, and pick us apart
when our time is through - and those sharp bills come due.

Rag picker on the street
Dust eater and maggot breather
She can tell the smell
Of burning plastic and paper
Of turning dung to soil
She knows the ways
Between the hills of refuse
Between the footfalls of her children
But who cares who she is
The lost and never found
Inherited a kingdom thrown away

Who cares what she thinks
She finds meanings in a bottle
Looks at a glossy magazine and wonders
Her slightly bent back aches
Sun ravages her skin each day
Brazen with resistance like herself
Her skin glistens with labors each day
Filling her heart with hazy dreams

Who cares what she sees
She hears those kids play faraway
A world insulated from her own
Where plastic is used and thrown away
And the worst smells won't make you sway
She sees the worth of this world
For what it truly is
She lives in the belly button
Never forgetting it was the beginning
And it may be the end

But who cares what she says
She's just another sweeper
Another rag picker
Treasure hunter and bounty filler
She sings old forgotten ballads
Songs with no beginnings
Songs with no creators
As she looks for something
An old school bag, a plastic earring

But who cares who she is
Just another one of these
Souls in an eternal sea
They never were
They never will be
An entire generation
Of nonentities
Forgotten children of Destiny