The crow can wait for man to fill
his pockets with the shiny thrill
of progress. Never will he eat
or drink these burdens to his feet
and flightless fingers. Never will
he hold them near, except to spill
them on the road when harsh winds chill
his skin. Upon a branching seat
the crow can wait
for man’s voice to cry out a shrill
unbending howl when heros kill
his sons. A bloodless torment beats
within his chest. He prays to meet
them on an unfamiliar hill.
The crow can wait.