Caw Caw Caw
What do these crows say?
Certainly, they’re not wasting
their voice. Perched on the
branches of the bay tree,
they don’t fly in the sizzling
sunlight. Long, short, swift,
slow, vibrant, weak…Variations
in the length and the size of
their cry affirm their cawing
is not meaningless. How can
they be close-mouthed about
the things around? They are
never opportunists. Like the
black oyster, there’s life within
the harsh shell of their voice.
Theirs is a pretension-free
accent, conveying true emotions.
Their raw communication is
worthier than the polished talk
with the hidden hypocrisies.
Though undeveloped, their
language never lacks warmth.
It’s the tongue of the heart,
spontaneous and syntax-less.
First published in The Literary Hatchet (issue#28)
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