The Crow

The prompt today is to write a poem in the style of Marianne Moore, with the suggestion of writing about an animal.





In a pink and yellow dawn,
          comes through the opening
                 in my silver lit window the koww koww,
metered and numbered echoes of the crow,
          who my wise father referred to as
                 Old Indians and taught his children to dutifully respect.

                             Crows hear frequencies lower than humans, which complicates study of their vocalizations and given man’s propensity to know and communicate with other species, at least to                    
understand them, frustration is the baffling consequence.

Crows keep secrets only crows can know.

Cherished by some for demolishing grasshopper eggs; worshiped for sparing crops, the flip side of this adulation is being called tricksters , thieves…they are humiliated, lied about, destroyed.

               Why then is it said crows are kind birds that feed their old and weakened parents?        Amusing that this           
old bird might be so blessed and fortunate.

Jackdaw,
raven,
corvid,
call him what you will.

To me he is liege.

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