Crow
Scavenger. Unmelodic and
jagged with lost sleep.
Suburb dweller. Crow
perched on top of the pine.
Calling, the intervals random,
only the tone predictable -
its broken yearning -
calling the prodigals,
the wanderers,
Eyes on the children
who play on the morning-wet lawn.
Heart in flight. Kin.
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Lovely. I love crows, with all their freight of omen, not to mention their forwardness. You have to worry a little about a crow watching the kids on the lawn, even when you know it can't really carry them away . . .
ReplyDeleteWow this is beautiful and haunting. I love the last three lines after the set up in the beginning. Do something more with this one!
ReplyDeletelove "jagged with lost sleep" and "calling ... the wanderers" -- I agree, beautiful and haunting. Thanks for sharing this one!
ReplyDeleteI think it's haunting, too. Love "calling the prodigals, the wanderers.
ReplyDeleteI love the jagged rhythm of your poem. Fitting for a crow's call.
ReplyDeleteThis is the time of year, when I notice them more, the crows and the ravens. No one ever accuses them of song, although you named it right--that broken yearning calling out.
ReplyDeleteThanks for the positive feedback.Due to the time difference, a nice surprise upon waking.
ReplyDeleteWow. You had me at 'suburb dweller'. This is a wonderful poem.
ReplyDeleteOh, I love the jagged with loss of sleep. And the ominous watching of those children. Moody and fabulous! Thanks for sharing.
ReplyDelete