Crows circle the predawn sky,
their flock of dark wings
making impossible turns,
pivoting with the certainty
of a thousand feathers,
their delight a private joy
before the city’s demand
in the hour of descent.
Crows circle the predawn sky,
their flock of dark wings
making impossible turns,
pivoting with the certainty
of a thousand feathers,
their delight a private joy
before the city’s demand
in the hour of descent.
Don,
I share your love for Nature and marvel at your ability to bring it all to life through words.
Thanks for starting the Poet’s Journal
Xavier
Sweet memories, eh Brother.
Blessings,
Snowy
Oh boy, I LOVE crow and raven poems! This one has all the urban mystery I feel for my neighborhood friends.
Here’s a crow poem by my husband, just to ad to the conversation.
Five Black Crows
As if five black holes fell from the stars
And landed on our neighbor’s lawn, five crows
Walk around like police within yellow,
Crime scene tape and peck to turn over leaves.
They’re looking for evidence of no-
thingness, of nada hiding everywhere.
They’re finding clues to eat, suspects
To drag off, terrorists to water-board
Down by the river, reports to scribble in mud,
And dead to filet with their sideways, black knives.
They are the cops of entropy, private
Eyes that prove everything falls apart.
They know that soon, the galaxy will call
Them back to chaos inside the dark horizon.
—Peter Jensen