Each drop danced a ballet, piercing the thick
layers of solemn pall. They leaped and twisted
from the clouds and guided the dagger blades
that slashed faces and whipped leaves off trees.
Wolf-like, it howled on the mountain, relentless,
as a crow soared overhead through the clouds.
Its wings worked hard to keep it alive – what a
monotonous existence, we chuckled. Sustenance
is not enough for us. We crave amusement, but
the bird just wants to live. What a peaceful
existence, I thought, and what a lucky crow.
Perpetual drumbeat becomes unsteady
as chaotic serenity descends from the grey.
Shrouds of death linger in the crisp air, rickety
as zephyr calmly pummels even the strongest
trees – then the breeze becomes a wind, and
the wind becomes a storm. Battering the city
and demolishing everything in its path, it left
nothing in its wake. We were abandoned, we
were alone. Drumbeats faded away and
we watched the crow’s despondent body
descend down and smack on the concrete.
What a monotonous and grey existence,
and what a lucky crow to have escaped.