Speak

Something about the crow
called out to the sky
it was a wistful black that ultimately,
the sky could never be
not with a sun or a moon dangling here and there
not with a dream of a falling, burning star.

The sky spoke of its dreams
wished and wished
while performing its duties as an abstract concept
for the sky was not really the sky
and the crow did not fly in a sky
but the air

The sky had no end beyond the clouds
it continued into a vast expanse
and could that still be called sky?
The nebulous realm of space
never truly cut off from itself
here it is blue there it is black
but not really.
Such an afterthought
was only good to elicit a sigh.

A few more desires unfulfilled.
A glance at the murder of crows
in a subtle call for attention

Are you listening?

But the murder had landed onto the earth
a realm of temptation, beyond its domain
forever there
forever intangible
one cawed as it fed the starving young.