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.
Copyright © Michael East | Year Posted 2016
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