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.
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