The Old Crow

There was once an old crow. An old crow there once was who never pestered the world with the sound of his caws. There was once an old crow, dreamed of being an owl, and hated each time passersby would scowl. He hated the taste of bugs, bread and lice, and longed instead for wild field mice. He despised the sun, especially the way it painted black on his feathers: horrid black, everyday. He didn't understand why he made such a poor nest, and whispered to the sky for a full, glorious crest. When he studied the stars, he saw no constellations, but imagined them there: his best form of creation. He had not the beak for wild field mice; he had not the iris to see clearly at night. But he did have the heart and the courage to dream of being an owl and all that that means.