A Crow comes and sits on the
opalescent wind;
a speck, a bird.
What has this got to do with you?
Nothing, I would argue.
I would argue that we live in little
enclosures now;
that a wingbeat may ruffle your
collar
but is actually only a thimbleful of
life;
that a fresh red car will
take you where you want to go;
that a finely lacquered pen will
teach you, finally, yourself;
that those binoculars, still sealed in
clear plastic
like the pond above the pond,
and a colour book of 500 species
will
help you grasp, at last, what it is
that you’re seeing.
The Crow shrinks like
a raindrop falling sideways,
laughing.
This is nothing to me?
What is it that I’m seeing?
Leave a Reply