There is a crow who sits
On the same branch of that black
Tree, just outside that window, there,
Every day in the morning.
At first I found him a bit intrusive
(He always faces towards my sickroom,
as if he were some sort of
shameless peeper) but now I rather
Like having him across the way.
I wonder while he watches
Whether mine is the only
Window he visits. Perhaps
He has another appointment
Down the road a bit, shortly.
These days I sit indoors—
Bitter medicine! The
Downs are closed to me, though
I know the way lies open for he
Who sits and caws and stares,
Silhouetted against the green
Rolling hills out to the horizon,
Against the steel grey clouds
That Morning slowly lifted back
Night’s mantle to reveal, harbingers of
More rain, wandering resolutely forward.
It seems they are her new favorites,
The only messengers she
Consents to send, of late.
I wonder what the crow
Makes of this, whether he is the
Sort of thing that makes anything
Of anything at all.
Maybe he just flies and wheels,
Looking for the small carcasses that
Litter the trails.
I would prefer to believe that he scavenged
Points further afield, but my fear,
Lately, has been that he never strays
Far from the High Street; this his
Trail, and we somehow the small—