My Crow

A bird on the horizon He flew, a soft black crow Flying through the air, the Sun has its favorite and he Was mine. He flew a crooked Road and arrived every morning. He had a flaw, his one leg did not Work and in the winter it froze. With ice around it he carried the Leg with all his might, just one Good leg to get around. He struggled but I fed him well, he would Watch for me winter to spring, but there Was one night, a storm, the wind Was strong, it blew so hard and in that Morning I never saw him then, a falcon Circled overhead, the days did pass and he Was dead. He still flies though, in my mind, A Soft black crow, in the air, from up above Looking down- still thinking I am there.