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.
.
.
I like this one, Jodi, and even learned a little.
ReplyDeleteGood work today.
Happy Easter!
Some giant raven just attacked a bird in our yard. I was getting dinner ready and didn't know what to do so I threw a potato at him from the window and chased him away. When Stefan came home to mow the grass I told him "Don't be surprised if you find a potato in the yard". You should have seen the look on his face. LOL.
DeleteThey seem all equal to me, heralding their arrival with a most grating sound...
ReplyDeletewhen I worked nights and slept days they would by the dozens wake me from the
sleep I so desperately needed...
years later I learned that a loud noise would send them elsewhere and if
repeated every day it would keep them from returning...
Crows herd much better than cats...